“Ay,” remarked the old burglar coolly. As Mr. Penfound approached the coffee-stall, he observed that it was no ordinary coffee-stall. It belonged to the aristocracy of coffee-stalls. It was painted a lovely deep crimson, and on this crimson, amid flowers and scrolls, had been inscribed the names of the delicacies within:--Tea, coffee, cocoa, rolls, sandwiches, toast, sausages, even bacon and eggs. Mr. Penfound’s stomach called aloud within him at the rumour of these good things. When the trio arrived, the stallkeeper happened to be bending over a tea-urn, and he did not notice the halt of the procession until Mr. Penfound spoke. “I say,” Mr. Penfound began, holding the revolvers about the level of his top waistcoat button, and with his eyes fixed on the burglars--“I say!” “Tea or coffee?” asked the stallkeeper shortly, looking up. “Neither--that is, at present,” replied Mr. Penfound sweetly. “The fact is, I’ve got two burglars here.” “Two _what_--where?” Mr. Penfound then explained the whole circumstances. “And I want you to fetch a couple of policemen.” The stallkeeper paused a moment. He was a grim fellow, so Mr. Penfound gathered from the corner of his eye. “Well, that’s about the best story as I ever ’eard,” the stallkeeper said. “And you want me to fetch a policeman?” “Yes; and I hope you’ll hurry up. I’m tired of holding these revolvers.” “And I’m to leave my stall, am I?” “Certainly.” The stallkeeper placed the first finger of his left hand upright against his nose. “Well, I just ain’t then. What d’ye take me for? A bloomin’ owl? Look ’ere, mister: no kid! Nigh every night some jokers tries to get me away from my stall, so as they can empty it and run off. But I ain’t been in this line nineteen year for nuthin’. No, you go and take yer tale and yer pistols and yer bloomin’ burglars somewhere else. ’Ear?” “As you please,” said Mr. Penfound, with dignity. “Only I’ll wait here till a policeman comes, or someone. You will then learn that I have told you the truth. How soon will a policeman be along?” “Might be a ’our, might be more. There ain’t likely to be no other people till four-thirty or thereabouts; that’s when my trade begins.” Mr. Penfound was annoyed. His hunger, exasperated by the exquisite odours of the stall, increased every second, and the prospect of waiting an hour, even half an hour, was appalling. Another idea occurred to him. “Will you,” he said to the stallkeeper, “kindly put one of those sausages into my mouth? I daren’t loose these revolvers.” “Not till I sees yer money.” Hunger made Mr. Penfound humble, and he continued-- “Will you come round and take the money out of my pocket?” “No, I won’t. I don’t leave this ’ere counter. I know yer dodges.” “Very well, I will wait.” “Steady on, governor. You aren’t the only chap that’s hungry.”