It was true, there at the end of the bed, flashing the conventional bull's-eye lantern, stood at last a real burglar.
"Put 'em up!"
My hands went heavenward in thanksgiving and gratitude.
"Make a move, you candy dude, or shout for help," continued the voice, shoving into the light the muzzle of a Colt's revolver, "and this for you's!"
The slighting allusion I took to the credit of the pink and white pajamas I wore—but nothing at that moment could have ruffled my feelings. I was bubbling over with happiness. I wanted to jump up and hug him in my arms. I listened. Downstairs could be heard the sound of feet and an occasional metallic ring.
"Oh, George, isn't it too wonderful—wonderful for words!" said Clara, hysterical with joy.
"I can't believe it," I cried.
"Shut up!" said the voice behind the lantern.
"My dear friend," I said conciliatingly, "there's not the slightest need of your keeping your finger on that wabbling, cold thing. My feelings towards you are only the tenderest and the most grateful."
"Huh!"