The Burglar and the Blizzard: A Christmas Story | Page 6

storm, the absence of
the two undermen, and the helplessness of the McFarlanes. Then he
remembered the telephone, which, fortunately, stood in a closet off the
library.
He turned to the burglar. "Stand with your face to the wall and your
hands up," he said; "and if I see you move I'd just as lief shoot you as
look at you," with which warning he approached the telephone and, still
keeping an eye on the other, rang up central. There was no answer. He
rang again,--six, seven times he repeated the process unavailingly. He
tried the private wire to the McFarlane cottage with no better result.
At this point the burglar spoke.
"Oh, what the devil!" he said mildly; "I can't stand here with my hands
over my head all night."
"You'll stand there," replied Geoffrey with some temper, "until I'm
ready for you to move."

"And when will that be?"
"When this fool of a Central answers."
"Oh, not as long as that, I hope," said the burglar, "because, to tell the
truth, I always cut the telephone wires before I enter a house."
There was a pause in which it was well Geoffrey did not see the artless
smile of satisfaction which wreathed the burglar's face. At length
Geoffrey said:
"In that case you might as well sit down, for we seem likely to stay here
until morning." He calculated that by that time, Mrs. McFarlane,
alarmed at his absence, would send some one to look for him,--some
one who could be used as a messenger to fetch the constable.
To this suggestion the burglar appeared to acquiesce, for he sank at
once into an armchair--an armchair toward which Holland himself was
making his way, knowing it to be the most comfortable for an all-night
session. Feeling the absurdity of making any point of the matter,
however, he contented himself with the sofa.
"Take off your mask," he said as he sat down.
"So I will, thank you," said the burglar as if he had been asked to
remove his hat, and with his left hand he slipped it off. The face that
met Geoffrey's interested gaze was thin, yet ruddy, and tanned by
exposure so that his very light brilliant eyes flared oddly in so dark a
surrounding. Above, his sandy hair, which had receded somewhat from
his forehead, curled up from his temples like a baby's. His upper lip
was long and with a pleasant mouth gave his face an expression of
humour. His hands were ugly, but small.
They sat for some time without moving, the burglar engaged in
bandaging the cut on his right hand with obvious indifference to
Holland's presence, Geoffrey meanwhile studying him carefully. The
process of bandaging over, the man reached out his hand toward the
bookcase and, selecting a volume of Sterne, settled back comfortably in
his chair. Holland stared at him an instant in wonder, and then
attempted to follow his example. But his attention to his book was
much less concentrated than that of his captive, whose expression soon
showed him to be completely absorbed.
They must have sat thus for an hour, before the burglar began to show
signs of restlessness. He asked if it were still snowing, and looked
distinctly disturbed on being told it was. At last he broke the silence

again.
"You don't remember me, do you?" he said.
Geoffrey slowly raised his eyes without moving--his revolver was
drooping in his right hand. He ran his mind over his criminal
acquaintance unsuccessfully, and repeated:
"Remember you?"
"Yes, we were at school together for a time."
Geoffrey stared, and then exclaimed spontaneously:
"You used to be able to wag your ears."
"Can still."
"Why, you are Skinny McVay."
The man nodded. Neither was without a sense of humour, and yet saw
nothing comic in these untender reminiscences.
"I remember the masters all hated you," said Geoffrey, "but you were
straight enough then, weren't you?"
Again the man nodded. "I took to this sort of thing a month or so ago."
After a moment Geoffrey said:
"Did not I hear you were in the navy?"
"No," said McVay. "I was at Annapolis for a few months. I had an idea
I should like the navy, but Heavens above! I could not stand the
Academy. They threw me out. It seems I had broken every rule they
had ever made. It was worse than State's prison."
"Are you in a position to judge?" asked Geoffrey coolly.
"No," said McVay, as if he nevertheless had information on the subject.
"Well, you will be soon," said Holland, not sorry for an opportunity to
point out that his heart was not softened by recollections of his school
days. But McVay appeared to ignore this intimation.
"Yes," he said ruminatively; "I've done a