Castle Craneycrow | Page 2

of my gloves and hat in there, did you?" A hat and a pair of
gloves were produced, not perfect in fit, but quite respectable.
Soberly they walked out into the street and off through the two-o'clock
stillness. The mystified burglar was losing his equanimity. He could not
understand the captor's motive, nor could he much longer curb his
curiosity. In his mind he was fully satisfied that he was walking straight
to the portals of the nearest station. In all his career as a housebreaker,
he had never before been caught, and now to be captured in such a way
and treated in such a way was far past comprehension. Ten minutes
before he was looking at a stalwart figure with a leveled revolver,
confidently expecting to drop with the bullet in his body from an
agitated weapon. Indeed, he encountered conditions so strange that he
felt a doubt of their reality. He had, for some peculiar and amazing
reason, no desire to escape. There was something in the oddness of the
proceeding that made him wish to see it to an end. Besides, he was
quite sure the strapping young fellow would shoot if he attempted to
bolt.

"This is a fairly good eating house," observed the would-be victim as
they came to an "all-nighter." They entered and deliberately removed
their coats, the thief watching his host with shifty, even twinkling eyes.
"What shall it be, Mr. Robber? You are hungry, and you may order the
entire bill, from soup to the date line, if you like. Pitch in."
"Say, boss, what's your game?" demanded the crook, suddenly. His
sharp, pinched face, with its week's growth of beard, wore a new
expression--that of admiration. "I ain't such a rube that I don't like a
good t'ing even w'en it ain't comin' my way. You'se a dandy, dat's right,
an' I t'ink we'd do well in de business togedder. Put me nex' to yer
game,"
"Game? The bill of fare tells you all about that. Here's quail, squab,
duck--see? That's the only game I'm interested in. Go on, and order."
"S' 'elp me Gawd if you ain't a peach."
For half an hour Mr. Burglar ate ravenously, Quentin watching him
through half-closed, amused eyes. He had had a dull, monotonous week,
and this was the novelty that lifted life out of the torpidity into which it
had fallen.
The host at this queer feast was at that time little more than twenty-five
years of age, a year out of Yale, and just back from a second tour of
South America. He was an orphan, coming into a big fortune with his
majority, and he had satiated an old desire to travel in lands not visited
by all the world. Now he was back in New York to look after the
investments his guardian had made, and he found them so ridiculously
satisfactory that they cast a shadow of dullness across his mind, always
hungry for activity.
"Have you a place to sleep?" he asked, at length.
"I live in Jersey City, but I suppose I can find a cheap lodgin' house
down by d' river. Trouble is, I ain't got d' price."
"Then come back home with me. You may sleep in Jackson's room.

Jackson was my man till yesterday, when I dismissed him for stealing
my cigars and drinking my drinks. I won't have anybody about me who
steals. Come along."
Then they walked swiftly back to Quentin's flat. The owner of the
apartment directed his puzzled guest to a small room off his own, and
told him to go to bed.
"By the way, what's your name?" he asked, before he closed the door.
"Turkington--James Turkington, sir," answered the now respectful
robber. And he wanted to say more, but the other interrupted.
"Well, Turk, when you get up in the morning, polish those shoes of
mine over there. We'll talk it over after I've had my breakfast.
Good-night."
And that is how Turk, most faithful and loyal of servants, began his
apparently endless employment with Mr. Philip Quentin, dabbler in
stocks, bonds and hearts. Whatever his ugly past may have been,
whatever his future may have promised, he was honest to a painful
degree in these days with Quentin. Quick-witted, fiery, willful and as
ugly as a little demon, Turk knew no law, no integrity except that
which benefitted his employer. Beyond a doubt, if Quentin had
instructed him to butcher a score of men, Turk would have proceeded
to do so and without argument. But Quentin instructed him to be honest,
law-abiding and cautious. It would be perfectly safe to guess his age
between forty and sixty, but it would not be wise to measure his
strength by the size of his body. The little ex-burglar was like