They went down into the basement; the cats, who seemed
to have fallen into the sleep of exhaustion, awoke at the sound of
the approaching footsteps and mewed piteously. Jane was at the
foot of the stairs before she saw it was not her brothers whose
coming had roused her and the cats, but a burglar. She knew he was
a burglar at once, because he wore a fur cap and a red and black
charity-check comforter, and he had no business where he was.
If you had been stood in jane's shoes you would no doubt have run
away in them, appealing to the police and neighbours with horrid
screams. But Jane knew better. She had read a great many nice
stories about burglars, as well as some affecting pieces of poetry,
and she knew that no burglar will ever hurt a little girl if he
meets her when burgling. Indeed, in all the cases Jane had read
of, his burglarishness was almost at once forgotten in the interest
he felt in the little girl's artless prattle. So if Jane hesitated
for a moment before addressing the burglar, it was only because she
could not at once think of any remark sufficiently prattling and
artless to make a beginning with. In the stories and the affecting
poetry the child could never speak plainly, though it always looked
old enough to in the pictures.
Pages:
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187