They were not sure that the forger would keep his promise about letting them have the hundred and fifty dollars. Talk about honour among thieves—the criminal world, as I heard about it from my corner in the shed, is dishonourable, untrue, frightfully selfish—there is no such thing as honour in it.
I must confess that I had had an idea that there is something fascinating about crime. The night master and Mr. Bonstone went to New York to warn the police about the planned burglary of the jeweller’s store, I had been secretly disappointed when they let Mr. Johnson follow the affair up, and we went home.
I didn’t want a burglary to take place, or rogues to be apprehended, but if the thing just had to be done, I wanted to see how burglars and police went about it.
But now—my dog soul was filled with the most awful and secret disgust and dread of this criminal life. It was nauseating. I wished to sweep it from the earth. At first I listened to the talk, then I buried my head in the straw. Such things were not fit for even a dog to hear.
I concentrated my attention on myself. I must escape—but how? There seemed not one single avenue open to me. I had always had a theory, that no man and no dog can be put in any place so tight that he can’t get out of it, but I seemed to be in such a place now. I could think of absolutely nothing to do.
The scheme of these young villains was a very simple, but a very cunning one. By instinct and habit, they were natives of the very downest part of New York. They had brought me to the country to escape the keen eyes of the New York police, who, as I have said before, are, in spite of the criticism they receive, a pretty fine body of men.
The paler of the villains posed as a victim of tuberculosis. His brother, who was not his brother at all, had hired this tumble-down cottage as a place for him to breathe fresh air and recover in. Whenever they heard any one coming this Dud, as he was called, would flop down on a rickety old sofa drawn up close to an open window. I was his devoted black dog, kept for company, while his brother, who was a hard-working baker, was away in New York. He had to be a baker, for his flabby hands never could have belonged to a man who worked out-of-doors.
This pose was very clever, for it brought them in lots of food. A good, kind clergyman told some of the ladies in his congregation about the poor, sick, young New Yorker who had such a bad cough, and they came often and brought nourishing things to eat.
How my blood boiled when I saw these nice women driving up in their cars, and sending their servants in with dainty dishes for these two rapscallions, who ate them and grumbled because there was not more wine in the jellies.