Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 1, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 February 1884 — THE BURGLAR’S STORY. [ARTICLE]

THE BURGLAR’S STORY.

When I became 18 years of age my father, a distinguished begging-letter impostor, said to me: “JLieginald, I think it is time that yon began to think about choosing a profession. ” These .were ominous words. Since I left Eaton, nearly a year before, I had spent my time very pleasantly and very idly, and I was sorry to see my long holiday drawing to a close. My father had hoped to have sent me to Cambridge (Cambridge was a tradition in our family), but business had been very depressed of late, and a sentence of six months’ hard labor had considerably straitened my poor father’s resources. It was necessary—highly necessary— What I should choose a calling. With a sigh of resignation I admitted as much. “if you like,” said my father, “I will take you in hand and teach you my profession, and in a few years, perhaps, 1“ may take you into partnership; but, to be candid with you, 1 doubt whether it is a satisfactory calling for an athletic young fellow like you.” “I don’t seem to care about it particularly,” said I. “I’m glad to hear it,” said my father; “it’s a poor calling for a young man of spirit. Besides, you have to grow gray in the service before people will listen to you. It’s all very well for a refuge in old age, but a young fellow is likely to make but a poor hand at it. Now, I should like to cqjpijlt your own tastes on so important a matter as the choice of a profession. What do you say ? The army ?” “No, I didn’t care for the army.” “Forgery? The bar? Cornish Wrecking ?” “Father,” said I, “I should like to be a forger, but I write such an infernal hand.”

“A regular Eton hand,” said he. “Not plastic enough for forgery; but you could have a writing master. ” ‘‘lt’s as much as I can do to forge my own name. I don’t believe I should over be able to forge anybody else’s. ” “ ‘Anybody’s else,' you, .should say, not ‘anybody else’s.’ It’s a dreadful barbarism. Eton English.” “No,” said I, “I should never make a fortune at it. As to wrecking—why, you know how seasick I am.” “You might get over that. Besides, you would deal with wrecks ashore, not wrecks at sea. ” “Most of it done in small boats, I’m told. A deal of small boat work. No, I won’t be a wrecker. I think I should like to be a burglar. “Yes,” said my father, considering the subject. “Yes, it’s a fine, manly profession, but it’s dangerous—highly dangerous.” “Just dangerous enough to be exciting, no more.” “Well,” said mv father, “if you’ve a distinct taste for burglary, I’ll see what oan be done.” My dear father was always prompt with pen and ink. That evening he wrote to his old friend Ferdinand Stoneieigh, a burglar of the very highest professional standing, and in a week I Was duly and formally articled to him, with a view to ultimate partnership. I had to work h%rd under Mr. Stoneleigh. “Burglary is a jealous mistress,” said he. “She will tolerate no rivals. She exacts the undivided devotion of her worshipers.” And so I found it. Every morning At 10 o’clock I had to present myself at Btoneleigh’s chambers in New square, Lincoln’s Inn, and until 12 I assisted his olerk with the correspondence. At 12 I had to go out prospecting with Stoneleigh, and from 2 to 4 I had to devote to finding out all particulars necessary to a scientific burglar in any g’ven house. At first I did this merely r practice, and with no view to an Actual attempt. He would tell me of a house of which he knew well all the particulars and order me to ascertain all about that house and its inmates—their coming and going, the number of their servants, whether they slept in the basement or not, and other details necessary to be known before a burglary could be safely attempted. Then he would compare my information with his own facts and compliment or blame me, as I might deserve. He was a strict master, but always kind, just, and courteous, as became a highly polished gentleman of the old school. He was one of the last men who habitually wore hessians. After a year’s probation I accompanied him on several expeditions, and had the happiness to believe that I was of some little use to him. I shot him eventually in the stomach, mistaking him for the master of the house into

which we were breaking (I had mislaid my dark lantern), and he died on the grand piano. His dying wish was that his compliments might be conveyed to me. I rfow set np on my own account and engaged his poor old clerk, who neariy broke his heart at his late master’s funeral. Stoneleigh left no family. His money—about £12,000, invested for the most part in American railways—he left to the Society for Providing More Bishops, and his ledgers, daybooks, memoranda, and papers generally be bequeathed to me. As the chambers required furnishing I lost no time in commencing my professional duties. I looked through the books for a suitable house to begin upon, and found the following attractive entry: Thurlow Square—No. 102. House—Medium. Occupant—John I'avis: bachelor. Occupation—Desigmer of Dados. Age—Sfi. Physical Peculiarities—Very feeble; eccentric; dunks; evangelical; snores. Servants—Two housemaids, one eook. Sex—All female. Particulars of Servants—Pretty housemaid called Kaol.el; Jewess. Open to attentions. Goes out for beer at 0 p.m.; snores. Ugly housemaid called Bella; Presbyterian. Open to attentions; snores. Elderly cook; Primitive Methodist. Open to attentions; snores. Fastenings—Chubb's lock on street door, chain, and bolts. Bars to all basement windows. Practicable approach from third room, ground floor, which is shuttered and barred, but the bar has no catch and can be raised with table-knife. Valuable contents of House—Presentation plate from grateful esthetes. Gold repeater. Mulready envelope. Two diamond rings. Complete edition of “Bradshaw'' fromlts3l to present tlmo, 588 vols., bound limp calf. General—Mr. Davis sleeps seoond boor front; servants on third floor. Davis goes to bed at 10. No one on basement. Swarms with beetles; otherwise excellent house for purpose.

This seemed to me to be a capital house to try single-handed. At 12 o’clock that very night I pocketed two crowbars, a bunch of skeleton keys, a center-bit, a dark lantern, a box of silent matches, some putty, a life-pre-server and a knife, and set off at once for Thurlow Square. I remember that it snowed heavily. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground, and there was more to come. Poor Stoneleigh’s particulars were exact in every detail. I got into the third room on the groundfloor without the least difficulty and made my >vav into the dining-room. There was the presentation plate, sure enough—about 800 ounces, as I reckoned. I collected this and tied it up so that I could carry it without attracting attention. Just as I finished I heard a slight cough behind me. I turned and Baw a dear old silver-haired gentleman in a dressing-gown standing in the doorway. The venerable gentleman covered me with a revolver. My first impulse was to rush at and brain him with/any life-preserver. “Don’t move,” said he, “or you’re a dead man.” # A rather silly remark to the effect that if I did move it would rather prove that I was a live man occurred to me, but I dismissed it at once as unsuited to the business character of the interview. “You’re a burglar?” said he. “I have that honor, ” said I, making for my pistol-pocket. “Don’t move,” said he; "I have often wished to have the pleasure of encountering a burglar in order to be able to test a favorite theory of mine as to how persons of that class should be dealt with. But you mustn’t move. ” I replied that I should be happy to assist him if I could do so consistently with a due regard to my own safety. “Promise me,” said I, “that you will allow me to leave the house unmolested when your experiment is at an end?”

“If you will obey me promptly you shall be at perfect liberty to leave the house. ” “You will neither give me into custody nor take any steps to pursue me ?” “On my honor as a Designer of Dados,” said toe. “Good,” said I. “Go on.” “Stand up,” said he, “and stretch out your arms at right angles to your body.” “Suppose I don’t” said I. “I’ll send a bullet through your left ear,” said he. “But permit me to observe ” said I. Bang. A ball cut off the lobe of my left ear. The ear smarted, and I should have liked to attend to it, but under the circumstance s I thought it better to comply with the whimsical old gentleman’s wishes. “Very good!” said he. “Now do as I tell you, promptly and without a moment’s hesitation, or I cut off the lobe of your right ear. Throw me thatdifepreserver. ” “But ” “Ah, would you?” said he, cocking the revolver. The “click” decided me. Besides the old gentleman’s eccentricity amused me, and I was curious to see how far it would carry him. So I tossed my lifepreserver to him. He caught it neatly. “Now take off your coat and throw it to me. ”

I took off my coat and threw it to him diagonally across the room. “Now the waistcoat.” I threw the waistcoat to him. “Boots,” said he. “They are shoes,” said I, in some trepidation lest he should take offense when no offense was really intended. “Shoes, then,” said he. I threw my shoes to him “Trousers,” said he. “Come, come, I say!” exclaimed L Bang! The lobe of the other ear came off. With all his eccentricity, the old gentleman was a man of his word. He had the trousers, and with them my revolver, which happened to be in my right-hand pocket. “Now the rest of your drapery.” I threw him the rest of my drapery. He tied up my clothes in the tablecloth, and, telling me that he wouldn’t detain me any longer, made for the door with the bundle nnder his arm. “Stop,” said L “tVhat is to become of me?” “Really, I hardly know,” said he. “You promised me my liberty," said L “Certainly,” said he. “Don’t let me trespass any further on your time. You will find the street-door open; or, if from force of habit you prefer the win-

dow, you will have no difficulty m clearing the area railings. ” “Bnt I can’t go like this! Won’t you give me something to put on ?” “No,” said he, “nothing at all; good ! night.” The quaint old man left the room | with my bundle. I went after him, but j I found that he had locked an inner door that led up-stajys. The position was really a difficult one to deal with. I conldn’t possibly go into the Btreet as I was, and if I remained I should certainly be given into custody in the morning. For some time I looked in vain for something to cover myself with. The hats and great coats were no doubt in the inner hall, at all events they were not accessible under the circumstances. There was a carpet on the floor, but it was fitted to the recesses of the room, and, moreover, a heavy sideboard stood on it. However, there were twelve chairs in the room, and it was with no little pleasure that I found that on the back of each was an antimacassar. Twelve antimacassars would go a great way towards covering me, and that was something. I did my best with the antimacassars, but on reflection I came to the conclusion that they would not help me very much. The certainly covered me; but a gentleman walking through South Kensington at 3 a. m. dressed in nothing whatever but antimacassars, with the snow two feet deep on the ground, would be sure to attract attention. I might pretend I was doing it for a wager, but who would believe me? I grew very cold. I looked out of the window, and presently I saw the bull’s-eye of a policeman who was wearily plodding through the snow. I felt that my onlv course was to surrender to him. “Policeman,” said I from tfie window, “one word.” “Anything wrong, sir?” said he. “I have been c mmitting a burglary in this house, and I shall feel deeply obliged to you if you will kindly take me into custody.” “Nonsense, sir,” said he; “you’d better go to bed.” “There is nothing I should like better, but I live in Lincoln’s Inn, and I have nothing on but antimacassars; I am almost frozen. Pray take me into custody.” “The street door’s open,” said he. “Yes,” said I. “Come in.”

He came in. I explained the circumstances to him, and with great difficulty I convinced him that I was in earnest. The good fellow put his own great coat over me and lent me his own handcuffs. In ten minutes I was thawing myself in Walton Street Police Station. In ten days I was convicted at the Old Bailey. In ten years I returned from penal servitude. I found that poor Mr. Davis had gone to his long home in Brompton cemetery. For many years I never passed his house without a shudder at the terrible hours I spent in it as his guest. I have often tried to forget the incident I have been relating, and for a long time I tried in vain. Perseverance, however, met with its reward. I continued to try. Gradually one detail after another slipped from my recollection, and one lonely evening last May I found, to my intense delight, that I had absolutely forgotten all about it.—lT. S. Gilbert.