"But, George dear, he's here--in the room!" There was something in my wife's voice, a note of ringing exultation, that brought me bolt upright in bed. "Put up your hands--quick!" said a staccato voice. It was true, there at the end of the bed, flashing the conventional bull's-eye lantern, stood at last a real burglar. "Put 'em up!" My hands went heavenward in thanksgiving and gratitude. "Make a move, you candy dude, or shout for help," continued the voice, shoving into the light the muzzle of a Colt's revolver, "and this for you's!" The slighting allusion I took to the credit of the pink and white pajamas I wore--but nothing at that moment could have ruffled my feelings. I was bubbling over with happiness. I wanted to jump up and hug him in my arms. I listened. Downstairs could be heard the sound of feet and an occasional metallic ring. "Oh, George, isn't it too wonderful--wonderful for words!" said Clara, hysterical with joy. "I can't believe it," I cried. "Shut up!" said the voice behind the lantern. "My dear friend," I said conciliatingly, "there's not the slightest need of your keeping your finger on that wabbling, cold thing. My feelings towards you are only the tenderest and the most grateful." "Huh!" "The feelings of a brother! My only fear is that you may overlook one or two articles that I admit are not conveniently exposed." The bull's-eye turned upon me with a sudden jerk. "Well, I'll be damned!" "We have waited for you long and patiently. We thought you would never come. In fact, we had sort of lost faith in you. I'm sorry. I apologize. In a way I don't deserve this--I really don't." "Bughouse!" came from the foot of the bed, in a suppressed mutter. "Out and out bughouse!" "Quite wrong," I said cheerily. "I never was in better health. You are surprised, you don't understand. It's not necessary you should. It would rob the situation of its humor if you should. All I ask of you is to take everything, don't make a slip, get it all." "Oh, do, please, please do!" said Clara earnestly. The silence at the foot of the bed had the force of an exclamation. "Above all," I continued anxiously, "don't forget the pots. They stand on either side of the fireplace, filled with ferns. They are not pewter. They are solid silver champagne coolers. They are worth--they are worth--" "Two hundred apiece," said Clara instantly. "And don't overlook the muffineers, the terrapin dishes and the candlesticks. We should be very much obliged--very grateful if you could find room for them." Often since I have thought of that burglar and what must have been his sensations. At the time I was too engrossed with my own feelings. Never have I enjoyed a situation more. It is true I noticed as I proceeded our burglar began to edge away towards the door, keeping the lantern steadily on my face. "And one favor more," I added, "there are several flocks of individual silver almond dishes roosting downstairs--"