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CLARENCE LOOKS FOB A JOB
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merging Clarence's conscience. He sprang to his feet, embarked upon his career of crime.
"Show me!" cried Clarence de Pnyster Jones.
Midnight! (At this point the author would pause to allow ample time for dramatic effect and suspense. Perhaps it makes it stronger to put it this terse, nocturnal way. )
joke, but this here's no plice f 'r jokin'. Shut up 'n' come along like a mutton. ' '
Never had his own sitting-room looked so homelike to our poor hero as now under the baleful glimmer of Blinky's dark lantern. There his monogramed stationery ; there his box of priceless perfectos; there yonder, in the bedroom, his quilted dressinggown and easeful slippers. He felt
"the very picture op an amazed householder :
Midnight !
Four dim forms stealing down the street, vague with moon-shadows and black replicas of buildings flung out across the pavement. They paused.
"This here's the plice."
One of the forms gave a muffled cry.
"Why — why," it stammered, "you cant rob this one — it 's my own house. ' *
A cold revolver interrupted the words.
"Ye bloke! Wot's yer gime?" hissed Blinky, fiercely. "D'ye want to get us all pinched? A joke's a
dimly as tho he were living in a particularly improbable Moving Picture film, or playing the leader of a gang of toughs in a detective tale. He shivered as he recollected the regulation conclusion of such tales — the police, arrest, disgrace ! In his agitation Clarence forgot the clammy warning of the revolver and struggled desperately in the clutches of his mentor.
"Really — you — know," he panted, ' ' it is my house ; 'pon my word it is — you know "
A crash ! A chair down — four