“We come four,” growled Baxter.
“Well, four; and four back is eight. It could not have been a pleasant walk, as the night is cloudy and the roads are heavy from recent rains.”
“There warn’t no choice,” said Baxter, savagely. “We had to walk.”
“There it is,” said Mr. Braithwait, triumphantly, “you had to walk. Now, I don’t have to walk; I ride in the train or my carriage at any hour of the day or night. No honest man has to walk, if he has money—and, of course, you have.”
“The point,” admitted Mr. Graham, reluctantly, “is well taken.”
“I feel certain of it. Nor is this the only instance in which your pleasure is marred by fear. The very fame for which you strive is a constant bar to your enjoyment. If you take lodging at a hotel you are ejected; you may be refused admittance to any respectable theatre; in any place of entertainment, except the very lowest, you cannot make a new acquaintance for fear he may be a detective plotting your capture; you are compelled to eat, drink, and sleep among vile associates and vulgar surroundings; and all for a pitiful three thousand a year! By heaven! it is worth thirty!”
“You use strong language, sir,” exclaimed the youngest burglar, rising and pacing the floor in an agitated way.
“I do,” admitted the master of the house, “because my business sense is outraged by your stupidity.”
“Stupidity!” echoed Graham, sharply.
“That is the word,” returned Mr. Braithwait, sternly. “Your profession requires acuteness, courage, skill, caution, and endurance. Gentlemen, these are admirable traits, and with them you might be anything but burglars. The banking institutions, railways, private and civic corporations, are eager for such men; they pay them large wages and grant them great privileges. The governments, State and National, want such men, and are looking for them, while they are skulking through city alleys or walking miry roads at midnight. Gentlemen, with all your qualifications, you lack the one essential to success—common sense.”