“Suppose, now, any people were to attack us, what would you do, Tim?”
“What’s this for?” said he, grasping his knife; “with this I don’t care a straw for a dozen men.”
“It will be of service to you, no doubt, some time or other,” said the thieves; “it will be best, however, that your first essay be in something not quite so dangerous as levying taxes on the highways generally is. We will go to the neighbouring monastery, and break into the treasury of the Archimandrite; we shall find there quite enough to enrich us.”
“O! just as you please,” cried Timoney; “where the master goes the ’prentice follows.”
So away they went, all three in high spirits. When they came to the cloister, they flung an
iron hook upon the roof of the treasure-room, and Tim climbing up by means of a rope which was attached to it, at once gave proof that he was anything but a dull pupil. In a trice a hole was made in the roof—the chests in the treasury were broken open—money-bags were piled up upon the floor, and then flung down out of the treasury upon the ground, where they were gathered up by Tim’s comrades, and what had taken a long series of years to acquire was in a few minutes lost to the proprietor. All would have gone on in the smoothest manner in the world, provided Tim had been anything of a fool. But he knew perfectly well that his friends below would take all the money by virtue of being his instructors, and would not give him a share; he, therefore, took from out of a chest the cloak of the Archimandrite, which was made of the choicest sable-skin, and flung it out of the hole upon the
ground, intending it for himself, but had no sooner done so, than one of his masters took it up and put it on. Tim then, letting himself down began to feel for the cloak upon the ground, for it was very dark.
“What are you groping for?” said his masters.
“I am seeking for my cloak,” answered Tim.
“What do you mean by calling it yours?” said one. “I have put it on myself. How should it belong to you?”