"And did you ever hear from the man again?"
"Yes," observed the Idiot. "I met him on the train a day or two later—sat next to him in the smoking-car, in fact."
"And did he know you?"
"Yes. We had a very pleasant chat going to town. He said he was moving away from here. He couldn't stand it, he said. He was going to work in some new field where a man could get living pay for his work. Said he'd been robbed by some of our best people; what's the use of working for nothing? he asked. The poor man was kept down, and all that sort of talk."
"And you parted friends?"
"Yes," said the Idiot. "I felt rather sorry for him, and when he said good-bye I gave him a cigar and a five-dollar bill, and that was the end of him. I have since received a letter from him in which he said that my kindness was appreciated, and that I could leave my valuables out on the lawn all night hereafter with perfect impunity. 'There isn't a thief in our whole suburban gang would be mean enough to touch it after your kindness to me,' he wrote."
"Extraordinary!" said Mr. Pedagog.
"Very," said the Idiot. "Nevertheless, I have not taken his hint about leaving my silver out-of-doors, and have worked as hard as ever on my patent burglar-alarm."
"Oh, indeed! Have you a new idea in that line?" asked the Schoolmaster.
"Yes," said the Idiot. "It is wholly novel. It is designed to alarm the burglar, and not scare the people in the house. Did you ever hear of anything like that before?"