My Truthful Burglar

"My Truthful Burglar" by Charles Battell Loomis is a humorous and engaging story that delves into the misadventures of a burglar with a unique twist—he decides to narrate his experiences truthfully, providing a comedic commentary on his escapades. Through witty observations and clever situations, Loomis explores themes of morality, deception, and the absurdities of life, all while keeping readers entertained with sharp dialogue and a playful narrative style. The book invites readers to reflect on the nature of honesty and the complexities of human behavior in a lighthearted manner.

• Short story

								
I had an experience with a burglar night before last. My family are
all away, and I have been living alone in the house, a detached
villa in New Jersey, for upward of a month. Several burglaries have
occurred in the vicinity.

Night before last I was awakened about four o’clock by a noise made
by a clicking door, and opening my eyes, I saw a smooth-faced,
determined-looking man at my bedside. I did not cry out, nor hide
under the bedclothes, nor do any of the conventional things that one
does when a burglar comes to him.

I looked at him calmly for a moment, and then I said, “How d’ do?”

An expression of surprise passed over his intelligent features, but
he said mechanically, “Pretty well, thank you. And you?”

“Oh, I’m as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Are
you the burglar who has been doing this village?”

“I am,” said he, drawing up a chair and sitting down.

“Why don’t you deny it?” I asked. I wasn’t afraid. He amused me, this
nonchalant burglar.

“Well, because I’m not ashamed of my profession, for one reason, and
mainly because I was brought up by my father to tell the truth.”

“You tell the truth, and yet you are a burglar. How can you reconcile
those facts?”

“They are not irreconcilable,” said he, taking a corn-cob pipe out
of his pocket and filling it. “I am a burglar, and my father was one
before me, but he was a perfectly honorable man. He never lied, and
I never lie. I steal because that is my profession, but I make it a
rule to tell the truth upon all occasions. Why, if the success of my
venture to-night depended upon my lying to you, I’d immediately leave
this place, as innocent of plunder as when I came in. Where’s the
silver?”

“Top drawer of the sideboard.” There was a magnetism, a bonhomie,
about the man that captivated me.

“Are you armed?” asked he, as he puffed at his pipe.

“If I had been I’d have winged you before this,” said I, laughing.

“I believe you, and I honor you for being perfectly frank with me.”

“Why, as to that, I’m not to be outdone in frankness by a thief.”

“That will make my task so much the easier. After I’ve finished this
pipe I want you to give me your word that you’ll lie still until I’ve
taken all I want.”

I admired the man’s nerve, and I said: “For the time being I consider
you my guest, and, Spanish fashion, my house is at your disposal.”

“Don’t put it on that basis, or I will leave at once. This is no time
for aping the Spanish.”

“You are right. But I tell you candidly that I would far rather have
found out that you were a liar than a burglar. Your lies would not be
likely to injure me, but I’ll be out just so much by what you take.
I’d much rather you were a liar.”

“And I would not. If I steal, I do but take something that, to
paraphrase Shakspere, was yours, is mine, and has been slave to
thousands; but to lie would be to ‘lay perjury to my soul,’ and that
I would not do, ‘no, not for Venice’!”

“I see you know Shakspere,” said I, punching my pillow so that I
could be more comfortable. I was reading this odd fellow, and I
believed that I could dissuade him from his purpose.

“Know Shakspere? I was an actor once.”

I felt that I had him, for I know actors better than he knew
Shakspere.

“Did you ever play Hamlet?” I asked, sitting up in bed.

“I did; and I made such a hit that if it hadn’t been for the venality
of the press and my sense of honor, I would have been adjudged one of
the greatest Hamlets of the day.”

“Give me the soliloquy. I give you my word that ordinarily I’d rather
be robbed than hear it, but I like your voice and I believe that you
can do it justice.”

A self-satisfied smile illuminated his face. He laid down the pipe
and gave me the soliloquy, and it wasn’t bad.

“Bully!” I said, when he had finished. “Why, man, you make an
indifferent thief, else you would have decamped long ago; but the
stage has lost an actor that would have in time compelled the
unwilling admiration of the press.”

And so I jollied him, and he gave me the trial scene from “The
Merchant of Venice,” and other selections, until dawn began to show
in the east, when he picked up his bag and said, “It would be a shame
to rob a white man like you.” Then he bade me good-by and left.

And I congratulated myself upon my knowledge of human nature, until
I began to dress, when I found that the fellow had finished his
burgling before I woke, and he has all my silver.
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