Castle Craneycrow

Castle Craneycrow, by George
Barr McCutcheon

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Title: Castle Craneycrow
Author: George Barr McCutcheon

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CRANEYCROW ***

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CASTLE CRANEYCROW
BY
George Barr McCutcheon
NEW YORK
1902

CASTLE CRANEYCROW
THE TAKING OF TURK

It was characteristic of Mr. Philip Quentin that he first lectured his
servant on the superiority of mind over matter and then took him
cheerfully by the throat and threw him into a far corner of the room. As
the servant was not more than half the size of the master, his opposition
was merely vocal, but it was nevertheless unmistakable. His early

career had increased his vocabulary and his language was more
picturesque than pretty. Yet of his loyalty and faithfulness, there could
be no doubt. During the seven years of his service, he had been obliged
to forget that he possessed such a name as Turkington or even James.
He had been Turk from the beginning, and Turk he remained--and, in
spite of occasional out breaks, he had proved his devotion to the young
gentleman whose goods and chattels he guarded with more assiduity
than he did his own soul or--what meant more to him--his personal
comfort. His employment came about in an unusual way. Mr. Quentin
had an apartment in a smart building uptown. One night he was
awakened by a noise in his room. In the darkness he saw a man
fumbling among his things, and in an instant he had seized his revolver
from the stand at his bedside and covered the intruder. Then he calmly
demanded: "Now, what are you doing here?"
"I'm lookin' for a boardin' house," replied the other, sullenly.
"You're just a plain thief--that's all."
"Well, it won't do me no good to say I'm a sleepwalker, will it?--er a
missionary, er a dream? But, on d' dead, sport, I'm hungry, an' I wuz
tryin' to git enough to buy a meal an' a bed. On d' dead, I wuz."
"And a suit of clothes, and an overcoat, and a house and lot, I suppose,
and please don't call me 'sport' again. Sit down--not oh the floor; on
that chair over there. I'm going to search you. Maybe you've got
something I need." Mr. Quentin turned on the light and proceeded to
disarm the man, piling his miserable effects on a chair. "Take off that
mask. Lord! put it on again; you look much better. So, you're hungry,
are you?"
"As a bear."
Quentin never tried to explain his subsequent actions; perhaps he had
had a stupid evening. He merely yawned and addressed the burglar
with all possible respect. "Do you imagine I'll permit any guest of mine
to go away hungry? If you'll wait till I dress, we'll stroll over to a
restaurant in the next street and get some supper.

"Police station, you mean."
"Now, don't be unkind, Mr. Burglar. I mean supper for two. I'm hungry
myself, but not a bit sleepy. Will you wait?"
"Oh, I'm in no particular hurry."
Quentin dressed calmly. The burglar began whistling softly.
"Are you ready?" asked Philip, putting on his overcoat and hat.
"I haven't got me overcoat on yet," replied the burglar, suggestively.
Quentin saw he was dressed in the chilliest of rags. He opened a closet
door and threw him a long coat.
"Ah, here is your coat. I must have taken it from the club by mistake.
Pardon me."
"T'anks; I never expected to git it back," coolly replied the burglar,
donning the best coat that had ever touched his person. "You didn't see
anything