The Intrusion of Jimmy | Page 6

much too quick for me," he said. "I don't see why they want
to rip along at that pace," he went on, hurriedly. "I like to have a chance
of enjoying the sea-air."
"I know that sea-air," murmured Mifflin.
Jimmy looked up quickly.

"What are you babbling about, Arthur?"
"I said nothing," replied Mifflin, suavely.
"What did you think of the show tonight, Jimmy?" asked Raikes.
"I liked it. Arthur was fine. I can't make out, though, why all this
incense is being burned at the feet of the cracksman. To judge by some
of the plays they produce now, you'd think that a man had only to be a
successful burglar to become a national hero. One of these days, we
shall have Arthur playing Charles Peace to a cheering house."
"It is the tribute," said Mifflin, "that bone-headedness pays to brains. It
takes brains to be a successful cracksman. Unless the gray matter is
surging about in your cerebrum, as in mine, you can't hope--"
Jimmy leaned back in his chair, and spoke calmly but with decision.
"Any man of ordinary intelligence," he said, "could break into a house."
Mifflin jumped up and began to gesticulate. This was heresy.
"My good man, what absolute--"
"I could," said Jimmy, lighting a cigarette.
There was a roar of laughter and approval. For the past few weeks,
during the rehearsals of "Love, the Cracksman," Arthur Mifflin had
disturbed the peace at the Strollers' with his theories on the art of
burglary. This was his first really big part, and he had soaked himself in
it. He had read up the literature of burglary. He had talked with men
from Pinkerton's. He had expounded his views nightly to his brother
Strollers, preaching the delicacy and difficulty of cracking a crib till his
audience had rebelled. It charmed the Strollers to find Jimmy,
obviously of his own initiative and not to be suspected of having been
suborned to the task by themselves, treading with a firm foot on the
expert's favorite corn within five minutes of their meeting.
"You!" said Arthur Mifflin, with scorn.

"I!"
"You! Why, you couldn't break into an egg unless it was a poached
one."
"What'll you bet?" said Jimmy.
The Strollers began to sit up and take notice. The magic word "bet,"
when uttered in that room, had rarely failed to add a zest to life. They
looked expectantly at Arthur Mifflin.
"Go to bed, Jimmy," said the portrayer of cracksmen. "I'll come with
you and tuck you in. A nice, strong cup of tea in the morning, and you
won't know there has ever been anything the matter with you."
A howl of disapproval rose from the company. Indignant voices
accused Arthur Mifflin of having a yellow streak. Encouraging voices
urged him not to be a quitter.
"See! They scorn you," said Jimmy. "And rightly. Be a man, Arthur.
What'll you bet?"
Mr. Mifflin regarded him with pity.
"You don't know what you're up against, Jimmy," he said. "You're half
a century behind the times. You have an idea that all a burglar needs is
a mask, a blue chin, and a dark lantern. I tell you he requires a highly
specialized education. I've been talking to these detective fellows, and I
know. Now, take your case, you worm. Have you a thorough
knowledge of chemistry, physics, toxicology--"
"Sure."
"--electricity and microscopy?"
"You have discovered my secret."
"Can you use an oxy-acetylene blow-pipe?"

"I never travel without one."
"What do you know about the administration of anaesthetics?"
"Practically everything. It is one of my favorite hobbies."
"Can you make 'soup'?"
"Soup?"
"Soup," said Mr. Mifflin, firmly.
Jimmy raised his eyebrows.
"Does an architect make bricks?" he said. "I leave the rough
preliminary work to my corps of assistants. They make my soup."
"You mustn't think Jimmy's one of your common yeggs," said Sutton.
"He's at the top of his profession. That's how he made his money. I
never did believe that legacy story."
"Jimmy," said Mr. Mifflin, "couldn't crack a child's money-box. Jimmy
couldn't open a sardine-tin."
Jimmy shrugged his shoulders.
"What'll you bet?" he said again. "Come on, Arthur; you're earning a
very good salary. What'll you bet?"
"Make it a dinner for all present," suggested Raikes, a canny person
who believed in turning the wayside happenings of life, when possible,
to his personal profit.
The suggestion was well received.
"All right," said Mifflin. "How many of us are there? One, two, three,
four--Loser buys a dinner for twelve."
"A good dinner," interpolated Raikes, softly.

"A good dinner," said Jimmy. "Very well. How long do you give me,
Arthur?"
"How long do you want?"
"There ought to be a time-limit," said Raikes. "It seems to me that a
flyer like Jimmy ought to be able to manage it at short