Array Коллектив авторов - 33 лучших юмористических рассказа на английском / 33 Best Humorous Short Stories

Very respectfully,

‘Great pirates of Penzance!’ says I; ‘of all the impudent —’

But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the most appealing look in his eyes I ever saw on the face of a dumb or a talking brute.

‘Sam,’ says he, ‘what’s two hundred and fifty dollars, after all? We’ve got the money. One more night of this kid will send me to a bed in Bedlam. Besides being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dorset is a spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. You ain’t going to let the chance go, are you?’

‘Tell you the truth, Bill,’ says I, ‘this little he ewe lamb has somewhat got on my nerves too. We’ll take him home, pay the ransom and make our get-away.’

We took him home that night. We got him to go by telling him that his father had bought a silver-mounted rifle and a pair of moccasins for him, and we were going to hunt bears the next day.

It was just twelve o’clock when we knocked at Ebenezer’s front door. Just at the moment when I should have been abstracting the fifteen hundred dollars from the box under the tree, according to the original proposition, Bill was counting out two hundred and fifty dollars into Dorset’s hand.

When the kid found out we were going to leave him at home he started up a howl like a calliope and fastened himself as tight as a leech to Bill’s leg. His father peeled him away gradually, like a porous plaster.

‘How long can you hold him?’ asks Bill.

‘I’m not as strong as I used to be,’ says old Dorset, ‘but I think I can promise you ten minutes.’

‘Enough,’ says Bill. ‘In ten minutes I shall cross the Central, Southern and Middle Western States, and be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border.’

And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and as good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a half out of Summit before I could catch up with him.

At ten o’clock P. M. Felicia, the maid, left by the basement door with the policeman to get a raspberry phosphate around the corner. She detested the police– man and objected earnestly to the arrangement. She pointed out, not unreasonably, that she might have been allowed to fall asleep over one of St. George Rathbone’s novels on the third floor, but she was overruled. Raspberries and cops were not created for nothing.

The burglar got into the house without much difficulty; because we must have action and not too much description in a 2,000-word story.

In the dining room he opened the slide of his dark lantern. With a brace and centrebit he began to bore into the lock of the silver-closet.

Suddenly a click was heard. The room was flooded with electric light. The dark velvet portières parted to admit a fair-haired boy of eight in pink pajamas, bearing a bottle of olive oil in his hand.

‘Are you a burglar?’ he asked, in a sweet, childish voice.

‘Listen to that,’ exclaimed the man, in a hoarse voice. ‘Am I a burglar? Wot do you suppose I have a three-days’ growth of bristly bread on my face for, and a cap with flaps? Give me the oil, quick, and let me grease the bit, so I won’t wake up your mamma, who is lying down with a headache, and left you in charge of Felicia. who has been faithless to her trust.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Tommy, with a sigh. ‘I thought you would be more up-to-date. This oil is for the salad when I bring lunch from the pantry for you. And mamma and papa have gone to the Metropolitanto hear De Reszke. But that isn’t my fault. It only shows how long the story has been knocking around among the editors. If the author had been wise he’d have changed it to Carusoin the proofs.’

‘Be quiet,’ hissed the burglar, under his breath. ‘If you raise an alarm I’ll wring your neck like a rabbit’s.’

‘Like a chicken’s,’ corrected Tommy. ‘You had that wrong. You don’t wring rabbits’ necks.’

‘Aren’t you afraid of me?’ asked the burglar.

‘You know I’m not,’ answered Tommy. ‘Don’t you suppose I know fact from fiction. If this wasn’t a story I’d yell like an Indian when I saw you; and you’d probably tumble downstairs and get pinched on the sidewalk.’

‘I see,’ said the burglar, ‘that you’re on to your job. Go on with the performance.’

Tommy seated himself in an armchair and drew his toes up under him.

‘Why do you go around robbing strangers, Mr. Burglar? Have you no friends?’

‘I see what you’re driving at,’ said the burglar, with a dark frown. ‘It’s the same old story. Your innocence and childish insouciance is going to lead me back into an honest life. Every time I crack a crib where there’s a kid around, it happens.’

‘Would you mind gazing with wolfish eyes at the plate of cold beef that the butler has left on the dining table?’ said Tommy. ‘I’m afraid it’s growing late.’

The burglar accommodated.

‘Poor man,’ said Tommy. ‘You must be hungry. If you will please stand in a listless attitude I will get you something to eat.’

The boy brought a roast chicken, a jar of marmalade and a bottle of wine from the pantry. The burglar seized a knife and fork sullenly.

‘It’s only been an hour,’ he grumbled, ‘since I had a lobster and a pint of musty ale up on Broadway. I wish these story writers would let a fellow have a pepsin tablet, anyhow, between feeds.’

‘My papa writes books,’ remarked Tommy.

The burglar jumped to his feet quickly.

‘You said he had gone to the opera,’ he hissed, hoarsely and with immediate suspicion.

‘I ought to have explained,’ said Tommy. ‘He didn’t buy the tickets.’ The burglar sat again and toyed with the wishbone.

‘Why do you burgle houses?’ asked the boy, wonderingly.

‘Because,’ replied the burglar, with a sudden flow of tears. ‘God bless my little brown-haired boy Bessie at home.’

‘Ah,’ said Tommy, wrinkling his nose, ‘you got that answer in the wrong place. You want to tell your hard-luck story before you pull out the child stop.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the burglar, ‘I forgot. Well, once I lived in Milwaukee, and —’

‘Take the silver,’ said Tommy, rising from his chair.

‘Hold on,’ said the burglar. ‘But I moved away.’ I could find no other employment. For a while I managed to support my wife and child by passing confederate money; but, alas! I was forced to give that up because it did not belong to the union. I became desperate and a burglar.’

‘Have you ever fallen into the hands of the police?’ asked Tommy.

‘I said “burglar,” not “beggar,”’ answered the cracksman.

‘After you finish your lunch,’ said Tommy, ‘and experience the usual change Of heart, how shall we wind up the story?’

‘Suppose,’ said the burglar, thoughtfully, ‘that Tony Pastor turns out earlier than usual to-night, and your father gets in from ‘Parsifal’ at 10.30. I am thoroughly repentant because you have made me think of my own little boy Bessie, and —’

‘Say,’ said Tommy, ‘haven’t you got that wrong?’

‘Not on your coloured crayon drawings by B. Cory Kilvert,’ said the burglar. ‘It’s always a Bessie that I have at home, artlessly prattling to the pale-checked burglar’s bride. As I was saying, your father opens the front door just as I am departing with admonitions and sandwiches that you have wrapped up for me. Upon recognizing me as an old Harvard classmate he starts back in —’

‘Not in surprise?’ interrupted Tommy, with wide, open eyes.

‘He starts back in the doorway,’ continued the burglar. And then he rose to his feet and began to shout ‘Rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah! rah, rah, rah!’