Mifflin jumped up and began to gesticulate. This was heresy.
“My dear old son, what absolute——”
“I could,” said Jimmy, lighting a cigarette.
There was a roar of laughter and approval. For the past few weeks, during the rehearsals of Love, the Cracksman, Arthur Mifflin had disturbed the peace at the Strollers’ with his theories on the art of burglary. This was his first really big part, and he had soaked himself in it. He had read up the literature of burglary. He had talked with detectives. He had expounded his views nightly to his brother Strollers, preaching the delicacy and difficulty of cracking a crib till his audience had rebelled. It charmed the Strollers to find Jimmy, obviously of his own initiative, and not to be suspected of having been suborned to the task by themselves, treading with a firm foot on the expert’s favourite corn within five minutes of their meeting.
“You!” said Arthur Mifflin, with scorn.
“Me—or, rather, I!”
“You! Why, you couldn’t break into an egg unless it was a poached one.”
“What’ll you bet?” said Jimmy.
The Strollers began to sit up and take notice. The magic word “bet”, when uttered in that room, had rarely failed to add a zest to life. They looked expectantly to Arthur Mifflin.
“Go to bed, Jimmy,” said the portrayer of cracksmen. “I’ll come with you and tuck you in. A nice, strong cup of tea in the morning, and you won’t know there has ever been anything the matter with you.”