The Phoenix and the Carpet E. Nesbit (read more books .TXT) 📖

“If those cats only had a good long, wet, thirsty drink of milk,” Jane went on with eager persuasion, “they’d lie down and go to sleep as likely as not, and then the police won’t come back. But if they go on mewing like this he will, and then I don’t know what’ll become of us, or you either.”

This argument seemed to decide the criminal. Jane fetched the washbowl from the sink, and he spat on his hands and prepared to milk the cow. At this instant boots were heard on the stairs.

“It’s all up,” said the man, desperately, “this ’ere’s a plant. ’Ere’s the police.” He made as if to open the window and leap from it.

“It’s all right, I tell you,” whispered Jane, in anguish. “I’ll say you’re a friend of mine, or the good clergyman called in, or my uncle, or anything⁠—only do, do, do milk the cow. Oh, don’t go⁠—oh⁠—oh, thank goodness it’s only the boys!”

It was; and their entrance had awakened Anthea, who, with her brothers, now crowded through the doorway. The man looked about him like a rat looks round a trap.

“This is a friend of mine,” said Jane; “he’s just called in, and he’s going to milk the cow for us. Isn’t it good and kind of him?”

She winked at the others, and though they did not understand they played up loyally.

“How do?” said Cyril, “Very glad to meet you. Don’t let us interrupt the milking.”

“I shall ’ave a ’ead and a ’arf in the morning, and no bloomin’ error,” remarked the burglar; but he began to milk the cow.

Robert was winked at to stay and see that he did not leave off milking or try to escape, and the others went to get things to put the milk in; for it was now spurting and foaming in the washbowl, and the cats had ceased from mewing and were crowding round the cow, with expressions of hope and anticipation on their whiskered faces.

“We can’t get rid of any more cats,” said Cyril, as he and his sisters piled a tray high with saucers and soup-plates and platters and pie-dishes, “the police nearly got us as it was. Not the same one⁠—a much stronger sort. He thought it really was a foundling orphan we’d got. If it hadn’t been for me throwing the two bags of cat slap in his eye and hauling Robert over a railing, and lying like mice under a laurel-bush⁠—Well, it’s jolly lucky I’m a good shot, that’s all. He pranced off when he’d got the cat-bags off his face⁠—thought we’d bolted. And here we are.”

The gentle samishness of the milk swishing into the hand-bowl seemed to have soothed the burglar very much. He went on milking in a sort of happy dream, while the children got a cap and ladled the warm milk out into the pie-dishes and plates, and platters and saucers, and set them down to the music of Persian purrs and lappings.

“It makes me think of old times,” said the burglar, smearing his ragged coat-cuff across his eyes⁠—“about the apples in the orchard at home, and the rats at threshing time, and the rabbits and the ferrets, and how pretty it was seeing the pigs killed.”

Finding him in this softened mood, Jane said⁠—

“I wish you’d tell us how you came to choose our house for your burglaring tonight. I am awfully glad you did. You have been so kind. I don’t know what we should have done without you,” she added hastily. “We all love you ever so. Do tell us.”

The others added their affectionate entreaties, and at last the burglar said⁠—

“Well, it’s my first job, and I didn’t expect to be made so welcome, and that’s the truth, young gents and ladies. And I don’t know but what it won’t be my last. For this ’ere cow, she reminds me of my father, and I know ’ow ’e’d ’ave ’ided me if I’d laid ’ands on a ’a’penny as wasn’t my own.”

“I’m sure he would,” Jane agreed kindly; “but what made you come here?”

“Well, miss,” said the burglar, “you know best ’ow you come by them cats, and why you don’t like the police, so I’ll give myself away free, and trust to your noble ’earts. (You’d best bale out a bit, the pan’s getting fullish.) I was a-selling oranges off of my barrow⁠—for I ain’t a burglar by trade, though you ’ave used the name so free⁠—an’ there was a lady bought three ’a’porth off me. An’ while she was a-pickin’ of them out⁠—very careful indeed, and I’m always glad when them sort gets a few overripe ones⁠—there was two other ladies talkin’ over the fence. An’ one on ’em said to the other on ’em just like this⁠—

“ ‘I’ve told both gells to come, and they can doss in with M’ria and Jane, ’cause their boss and his missis is miles away and the kids too. So they can just lock up the ’ouse and leave the gas a-burning, so’s no one won’t know, and get back bright an’ early by ’leven o’clock. And we’ll make a night of it, Mrs. Prosser, so we will. I’m just a-going to run out to pop the letter in the post.’ And then the lady what had chosen the three ha’porth so careful, she said: ‘Lor, Mrs. Wigson, I wonder at you, and your hands all over suds. This good gentleman’ll slip it into the post for yer, I’ll be bound, seeing I’m a customer of his.’ So they give me the letter, and of course I read the direction what was written on it afore I shoved it into the post. And then when I’d sold my barrowful, I was a-goin’ ’ome with the chink in my pocket, and I’m blowed if some bloomin’ thievin’ beggar didn’t nick the lot whilst I was just a-wettin’ of my whistle, for callin’ of oranges is dry work. Nicked the bloomin’ lot ’e did⁠—and me with not a farden to