“WHAT IS YOUR ANNUAL INCOME AS A BURGLAR?”
“I don’t know about that,” protested Baxter, doggedly. “Who’d give me a job?”
“Did you ever try?”
“No; nor I ain’t goin’ to!”
“As I supposed. Honest work is plentiful, therefore you are absolutely without excuse. No one has usurped your name and fortune, stolen your ancestral home or intended bride; neither have you been outlawed for your political or religious beliefs, or unjustly accused of crime.”
The big burglar looked extremely blank at this pointed address, and took a grumbling drink of whiskey. Mr. Graham promptly came to his companion’s relief.
“You have made out a prima facie case, as the lawyers say, but the fact remains that there is a fascination in the life we lead, and some romance. 274 There is mystery about it, for one thing, and danger for another. Then we certainly have the sympathy of a certain class of society, when we are prisoners.”
“Is not the sympathy to which you allude confined to murderers, especially those who kill their wives?”
“As a rule, yes,” admitted Graham; “but the people, who have sympathy for murderers, generally have such a superabundance that they can spare some for us. I have known burglars to receive six bouquets in a single day, and from real ladies, too.”
“I am afraid,” said Mr. Braithwait, with a smile, “that the sympathy extended with such small discretion has little market value. But let us pass that by and glance at the disagreeable side of your profession. For instance, this night you have walked from the city, the nearest point of which is three miles.”