Dorothy's Christmas burglar

JANICE TAYLOR

Little Dorothy sat up in bed and listened. Someone was stirring down in the parlor. She shook her golden curls with excitement. From across the hall came the regular breathing of Dada and Momsy. Dada and Momsy had been to the theatre. They always went to the theatre the night before Christmas. Nursie, poor tired Nursie, too, was asleep upstairs. Someone was moving stealthily across the parlor—someone little Dorothy had been waiting for. It was Santa Claus. It must be Santa Claus. Sometime between midnight and morning, Dada had said, Santa would come down the chimney with his pack of presents on his back. He would creep on tiptoes over to the Christmas tree and . . .

Quick as a wink, little Dorothy slipped out of bed, thrust her tiny feet into her slippers of warm white rabbit fur, wrapped her pink comforter around her shoulders, darted through the door and then crept, mousy quiet, down the broad staircase, past the grandfather clock that always went "ticktock, tick-tock''. There was a single lamp burning in the parlor, and from the landing little Dorothy could see the shimmered reflection from the gold and silver ornaments on the big Christmas tree that stood over by the fireplace. Then, creeping silently forward, the golden-haired child entered through the wide parlor doors and, for a moment, her tiny heart stood still. There, kneeling down in front of Dada's safe was a man. It wasn't Santa Claus.

No, it wasn't a Santa Claus kind of a man at all. Instead of a bright red suit he wore old, dark, raggedy clothing. In place of the jolly round face with the merry eyes and the apple red cheeks, and long white whiskers, he had big, heavy jowls that were blue where he hadn't shaved. He had no eyes at all, but, instead, a black something across his face with two little holes cut into it, and an ugly black cap pulled down over his face. (Dorothy's little heart stood still.) On the floor beside him was a small square thing with a round hole in it from which came a long, thin, white light. He had lots and lots of little shiny sticks on the floor beside him. And as little Dorothy stood in the doorway he suddenly picked up something small and black with a hole in the front of it and pointed it at Dorothy for a moment until he saw the tiny figure with the long golden curls, the white rabbit slippers and the pink satin comforter drawn around the slim shoulders.

Little Dorothy knew all about burglars because Nursie had told her. The next moment she went pattering across the floor. She wasn't afraid at all.

"Hello," said Dorothy.

The man said nothing.

"Ooo isn't Santa Claus, is Ooo?" said Dorothy.

The man slowly shook his head from side to side. "Oh, my God," he said—"I'd forgotten. You?"

"Certainly," said Dorothy nastily. "Who did you expect, Aimee Semple McPherson?"

B The man shook his head again wearily.

"There you go stepping out of character again. I oughta known. I oughta known. Every Christmas it's the same. If they'd only get a new twist to the story just once, as a Christmas treat. Well, go ahead. Begin again."

"Won't," said Dorothy. "You begin," and closed her mouth tightly.

"Lissen," said the man. "You begin. You always do."

"Won't," said Dorothy. "You do."

"Do not."

"Do so."

"Cheeses," said the man balancing a small but business-like blackjack in the palm of his hand and looking lovingly at the small golden head.

"All right," said Dorothy—"Get brutal. How does it go again?"

"Is Ooo . . prompted the man.

"Is Ooo a burglar?" asked little Dorothy as she pattered across the floor and looked up trustingly into his face and then, in a quick aside, "Weissman's Defective, Type C, probably traumatic, frontoparietal index plus three. Congenital idiocy indicated."

"What?" said the Burglar.

"Never mind. Let's get on. Are you. . . ."

"Are you," obediently repeated the Burglar, "little Dorothy Smith, the golden-haired eightyear-old little daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Smith?" and then, in a similar quick aside— "Nasty, sneaky little brat. Down snooping among the presents, eh?"

Little Dorothy suddenly clapped her hands in childish glee. "Oh, isn't it fun," she said— "Just like Strange Interlude. . . ."

"I'm a Guild Subscriber—1 saw that play," said the Burglar gloomily. "I didn't like it."

"Why not? asked Dorothy, shaking her curls.

"It was too long." replied the Burglar. "W hat comes now? Is it the climbing into the lap part?"

Dorothy shook her head. "That doesn't come until I patter to the ice-box and fetch you a bottle of milk and a chicken leg because you must be hungry, poor man. You've skipped about six lines. 1 give it this Has Ooo any ittle dirls at home, Mr. Burglar?"

The Burglar looked gloomy again. "God help me, seven," he said. "The eldest is a boy. He's at Princeton now. Made Tower last month. God help me, seven."

"Rabbit," said Dorothy in disgust. "We're just coming to the fertility of the lower classes in school now. Miss Twitcham says it could be stopped. Haven't you . . . don't you . . . 1 mean haven't you read any books? I mean those books?"

The Burglar looked gloomy again. "What good are books?" he said. "They just keep on coming."

"Cretin!" snorted Dorothy.

"Well. ' said the Burglar leering a little through his mask, "you're here. That might have been avoided. The upper classes usually has one and it usually turns out a girl. So what?"

"Let's get on," said Dorothy hastily. "Hasn't yoor ittle dirls any kwismuss presents?"

"No," said the Burglar firmly. "But if you will get the hell out of here for five minutes, they will have."

"Anti-social, said Dorothy. "Respect for property rights is the first . . ."

"Ah, nertz!" interrupted the Burglar. "Your old man's got plenty."

"Oh, yeah?" said Dorothy—"Lissen. I'm coming down here to play with some of this stuff now because by morning the wagon'll probably back up to the door and take most of it back. My old man's in up to his neck. You take it but you pay for it."

"Chees, he got bent, did he?" said the Burglar sympathetically. "I was on the spot myself for a while. I had a couple of thousand shares of Kreuger I got out of a crib I cracked in Wall Street. When the bust came my old lady made me mail it back. We'd been in a hell of a jam with that stufT, wouldn'n we? Now we come to the part where you sit on my knee . . ."

Little Dorothy obediently climbed into the Burglar's lap and said—"Why doesn't Ooo go to work, Mister Burglar man, instead of robbing people?" and then she added quickly—"I know the answer—all day long you tramped the streets, weary and hungry, searching for work with hungry mouths at home to be fed. . . ."

"Who? Me, sister?" interrupted the Burglar. "Don't be silly. I'm doing all right. Only suckers work. It's only the last coupla years a lot of 'em found out they didn't have to. Anyway, if you don't think this is work you're crazy."

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"It isn't honest," declared Dorothy looking prim.

"Ah. don't he old fashioned," said the Burglar—"I suppose your old man's honest."

The little girl flushed hotly. "He is not, and don't you say so," she shouted. "My Dada's the crookedest lawyer in the state. All the papers say so. I'm my Dada's little girl. When 1 grow up I'm going to he a shoplifter. And I'm only going to hoist the best stores."

The Burglar looked meditative— "So you're old man's a mouthpiece, rh? Maybe I could throw him some of my business."

"My Dada doesn't take cheap crooks. Go get a reputation."

"Bah," said the Burglar and seemed on the verge of tears. "You and your class consciousness." Then he added, his voice taking on a sort of whine— "Times wouldn't he so had if they paid us our bonus."

Dorothy looked at him with more interest. "Oh," she said, "were you in the war?"

The Burglar swelled out his chest a little. "Yup!" he said. "I went over with the 79th. Wounded at Château Badly."

"Sucker," said Dorothy.

"Chees," said the Burglar looking Hurt and puzzled, "I fought the war, didn' I ? I was in France."

"Sure you were," agreed Dorothy with a nasty inflection in her little voice, "you and the rest of the chumps.

I hey took you, Buddy. You don't think tic think you were smart or brave, do you? You boohs went to war so we could have a depression. Thanks for nothing. You fell for a con game and now you want to get [laid for being a sap. No wonder you're nothing but a second-story man."

I lie Burglar looked at the child half admiringly. "Chees, you're a tough little cooky."

Dorothy slipped from his knee to the floor and began untying some of the red-ribboned packages under the shimmering tree. "These are tough times, Buddy," she said. "You gotta be tough or they shove you around." Then with a groan as she lifted the lid from a box she had unwrapped— "Nerts. Another sterling silver dresser set. I've got two. Take this, will you, old sport?"

"Nothin' doin'," said the Burglar shaking his head. "We got about sixteen of 'em over at the house already." lie stared absently at the tree for a moment. "Chees," he said—"it ain't like the old Christmas any more. . . ."

"Buddy," interrupted Dorothy fixing the Burglar with her bright blue eyes, "it ain't gonna be like the old Christmas any more for a long, long time."

"Aw, I mean us," complained the Burglar fidgeting with his tools, "I got kind of used to the old routine." He looked at his watch. "Just about this time you ought to be pattering up to your nursery to fetch your savings bank, the contents of which you will send to my little girls."

"Huh!" snorted Dorothy, "that is a laugh. You can have the bank, but my old lady—I mean Momsy—shook it down yesterday to pay her Gigolo. I like Momsy's Gig. He has a sense of humor. Dada has no sense of humor."

"I was driven to this life of sin," said the Burglar firmly, changing the subject, "by want and need. 1 could not bear to see my family starve. And so I became a house-breaker."

"What is it like, being a housebreaker?" asked Dorothy.

"Well," began the Burglar, "I get into some very nice houses. . . . It's fun going to the ice-boxes and seeing what there's left from dinner. I had quail the other night. It's out of season, you know."

"We had partridge last night," said Dorothy. "That's out of season, too."

"Quail's more expensive," declared the Burglar. "There were three left over. That's the kind of house that was. Well, and then it gives me a chance for my hobby. I get ideas."

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"Ideas for what?"

"Well, you see," the Burglar made shy little motions with his hands. "I used to do some interior decorating, in a small way. . . . It's my hobby. 1 get around and see things this way. Some very fine things."

Dorothy stuck out her tongue and said—"Pansy!"

"Brat!" said the Burglar.

"Moron," said Dorothy.

"Nouveau riche," said the Burglar.

"Proletarian," said Dorothy.

Enfant terrible," said the Burglar.

The two faced one another angrily. There was a moment of silence. From some tower high over the sleeping city a clock chimed the hour—four. The Burglar let his head droop. "It's Cliristmas morning." lie said. "Peace on Earth, Good Will to Men. And we're quarreling. You're supposed to reform me."

"Kwismuss," said Dorothy suddenly, "Kwismuss is here. Mewwy Kwismuss, Mister Burglar."

"Merry Christmas, little goldenhaired Dorothy," said the Burglar, dashing a tear from his eye.

"Please don't wob any more people any more, Mister Burglar," pleaded Dorothy, "and don't forget to take this dolly to your ittle dirls at home."

The Burglar arose with his tools and went to the window. "Goodbye little Dorothy and God bless you," he said and placed one leg on the sill. "So help me, from now on, I go straight. I'll reform."

"Wait a minute," said Dorothy. "Reform? Don't be a softy. I'm declaring myself in with you. Fifty-fifty, partner. Shut that window; come on upstairs and I'll show you where the old man keeps his dough. He got it just about the way you get yours."