Anne's Terrible Good Nature (Collection)/The Anti-Burglars

letter was addressed to Miss Mary Stavely. It ran:

",

"I have just received five pounds that I had given up for lost, and, remembering what you told me at Easter of the importance of distributing a little money in the village, I think you had better have it and become my almoner. An almoner is one who gives away money for another. I shall be interested in hearing how you get on.

"Your affectionate "Uncle Herbert."

Inside the letter was a five-pound note.

Mary read the letter for the twentieth time, and for the twentieth time unfolded the crackling five-pound note—more money than she had ever seen before. She was thirteen.

"But what shall I do with it?" she asked. "So many people want things."

"Oh, you mustn't ask me," said her mother. "Uncle Herbert wants you to decide entirely for yourself You must make a list of every one in the village who wants help, and then look into each case very carefully."

"Yes," said Harry, Mary's brother, as he finished breakfast, "and don't forget me. My bicycle ought to be put right, for one thing, and, for another, I haven't any more films for my camera. If that isn't a deserving case I'd like to know what is."

In a few days' time the list was ready. It ran like this:

Mary read through her list and once more added up the figures. They came to £6 11S. l0d.

"Dear me!" she said, "I hadn't any idea it was so difficult to be an almoner."

She went through the list again, and brought it down to £5 0s. 10d. by knocking off one week of Tommy Pringle's seaside holiday and depriving the village room of its gramaphone.

"I suppose I must make up the tenpence myself," she said.

That afternoon Mary went to call on Mr. Verney. Mr. Verney was an artist who lived at the forge cottage. He and Mary were great friends. She used to sit by him while he painted, and he played cricket with her and Harry and was very useful with a pocket-knife.

"No one," she said to herself, "can help me so well as Mr. Verney, and if I decide myself on how the money is to be spent, it will be all right to get some help in spending it."

Mr. Verney liked the scheme immensely. "But I don't see that you want any help," he said. "You have done it so far as well as possible."

"Well," said Mary, "there's one great difficulty: Thomas Barnes would never take anything from our house. You see, we once had his son for a gardener, and father had to send him away because of something he did; but though it was altogether his son's fault, Thomas Barnes has never spoken to father since, or even looked at him. But he's very old and poorly, and very lonely, and it's most important he should have a new hand-truck, because all his living depends on it; but it's frightfully important that he shouldn't know who gave it to him."

"Wouldn't he guess?" Mr. Verney said.

"Not if nobody knew."

"Oh, I see: no one is to know. That makes it much more fun."

"But how are we to do it?" Mary asked. "That's why I want you to help. Of course, we can post most of the money, but we can't post a truck. If Thomas Barnes knew, he'd send it back directly."

"Well," said Mr. Verney, after thinking for some time, "there's only one way: we shall have to be anti-burglars."

"Anti-burglars!" cried Mary. "What's that?"

"Well, a burglar is some one who breaks into a house and takes things away; an anti-burglar is some one who breaks into a house and leaves things there. Just the opposite, you see."

"But suppose we are caught?"

"That would be funny. I don't know what the punishment for anti-burgling is. I think perhaps the owner of the house ought to be punished for being so foolish as to interrupt. But tell me more about Thomas Barnes."

"Thomas Barnes," said Mary, "lives in a cottage by the cross-roads all alone."

"What does he do?"

"He fetches things from the station for people; he carries the washing home from Mrs. Carter's; he runs errands—at least, he doesn't run them: people wish he would; he sometimes does a day's work in a garden. But he really must have a new barrow, and his illness took all his money away, because he wouldn't belong to a club. He's quite the most obstinate man in this part of the country. But he's so lonely, you know."

"Then," said Mr. Verney, "we must wait till he goes away on an errand."

"But he locks his shed."

"Then we must break in."

"But if people saw us taking the barrow there?"

"Then we must go in the night. I'll send him to Westerfield suddenly for something quite late—some medicine, and then he'll think I'm ill—on a Thursday, when there's the midnight train, and we'll pop down to his place at about eleven with a screw-driver and things."

After arranging to go to Westerfield as soon as possible to spend their money, Mary ran home.

Being an almoner was becoming much more interesting.

Mr. Verney and Mary went to Westerfield the next day, leaving a very sulky Harry behind.

"I can't think why Uncle Herbert didn't send that money to me," he grumbled. "Why should a girl like Mary have all this almoning fun? I could almon as well as she can."

As a matter of fact, Uncle Herbert had made a very wise choice. Harry had none of Mary's interest in the village, nor had he any of her patience. But in his own way he was a very clever boy. He bowled straight, and knew a linnet's egg from a greenfinch's.

Mr. Verney and Mary's first visit was to the bank, where Mary handed her five-pound note through the bars, and the clerk scooped up four sovereigns and two half-sovereigns in his little copper shovel and poured them into her hand.

Then they bought a penny account-book and went on to Mr. Flower, the ironmonger, to see about Thomas Barnes' truck. Mr. Flower had a secondhand one for twenty-five shillings, and he promised to touch it up for two shillings more; and he promised, also, that neither he nor his man should ever say anything about it. It was arranged that the barrow should be wrapped up in sacking and taken to Mr. Verney's, inside the waggon, and be delivered after dark.

"Why do you want it?" Mary asked him.

"That's a secret," he said; "you'll know later."

Mr. Flower also undertook to send three shillings' worth of netting to Mrs. Callow, asking her to do him the favour of trying it to see if it were a good strong kind.

Mary and Mr. Verney then walked on to Mr. Costall, the dentist, who was in Westerfield only on Thursdays between ten and four. It was the first time that Mary had ever stood on his doorstep without feeling her heart sink. Mr. Costall, although a dentist, was a smiling, happy man, and he entered into the scheme directly. He said he would write to Mrs. Meadows and ask her to call, saying that some one whom he would not mention had arranged the matter with him. And when Mary asked him how much she should pay him, he said that ten shillings would do. This meant a saving of half a crown,

"How nice it would be always to visit Mr. Costall," Mary said, with a sigh, "if he did not pull out teeth."

Mary and Mr. Verney then chose Mrs. Wigram's new bonnet, which they posted to her at once. Mr. Verney liked one with red roses, but Mary told him that nothing would ever induce Mrs. Wigram to wear anything but black. The girl in the shop recommended another kind, trimmed with a very blue bird; but Mary had her own way.

Afterwards they bought a ball for the Barretts; and then they bought a postal order for eight shillings for Mrs. Carter, and half a crown for Mr. Eyles, and ten shillings for Mrs. Ryan, and fourteen shillings for Mrs. Pringle. It was most melancholy to see the beautiful sovereigns dropping into other people's tills. Mary put all these amounts down in her penny account-book. She also put down the cost of her return ticket.

When they got back to the village they saw Mr. Ward, the station-master. After telling him how important it was to keep the secret, Mary bought a return ticket to the sea for Tommy Pringle, without any date on it, and two excursion tickets for old Mr. and Mrs. Snelling for the 1st of next month. Mr. Ward did not have many secrets in his life, and he was delighted to keep these.

While they were talking to him a curious and exciting thing happened. A message began to tick off on the telegraph machine. Mr. Verney was just turning to go away when Mr. Ward called out, "Stop a minute, please! This message is for Miss Stavely."

Mary ran over to the machine and stood by Mr. Ward while he wrote down the message which the little needle ticked out. She had never had a telegram before, and to have one like this—"warm from the cow," as Mr. Ward said—was splendid. Mr. Ward handed it to her at last.

".

"How is the almoning? I want to pay all extra expenses.—."

The reply was paid; but Mary had to write it out several times before it satisfied her and came within the sixpence. This was what she said:

".

"All right. Will send accounts. Expenses small.—."

On the way home they spoke to Eraser, who let out carriages and carts. Eraser liked the plan as much as every one else did. He promised to call in on the Snellings in a casual way, on the morning on which they would receive the tickets, and suggest to them that they should let him drive them to the station and bring them home again. When Mary offered to pay him, Mr. Eraser said no, certainly not; he would like to help her. He hadn't done anything for anybody for so long that he should be interested in seeing what it felt like. This meant a saving of four shillings.

Mary went to tea at Mr. Verney's. After tea he printed addresses on a number of envelopes, and put the postal orders inside, with a little card in each, on which he printed the words, "From a friend, for Tommy to go to the sea-side home for a fortnight"; "From a friend, for Mr. and Mrs. Snelling to go to London"; "From a friend, for Mr. Eyles' spectacles," and so forth, and then he stamped them and stuck them down, and put them all into a big envelope, which he posted to his sister in Ireland, so that when they came back they all had the Dublin postmark, and no one ever saw such puzzled and happy people as the recipients were.

"Has your mother any friends in Dublin, Miss Mary?" Mrs. Snelling asked a day or so later, in the midst of a conversation about sweet peas.

"No," said Mary. It was not until afterwards that she saw what Mrs. Snelling meant.

Next Thursday came at last, the day on which Thomas Barnes' shed was to be anti-burgled. At ten o'clock, having had leave to stay up late on this great occasion, Mary put on her things, and Mr. Verney, who had come to dinner, took her to his rooms. There, in the outhouse which he used for a studio, he showed her the truck.

"And here," he said, "is my secret," pointing out the words—

which he had painted in white letters on the side.

"He's bound to keep it now, whatever happens," Mr. Verney said. "In order to make as little noise as possible to-night," he added, "I have wrapped felt round the tyres."

He then took a bag from the shelf, placed it on the barrow, and they stole out. Mr. Verney's landlady had gone to bed, and there was no sound of anyone in the village. The truck made no noise.

After half a mile they came to the cross-roads where Thomas Barnes' cottage stood, and Mr. Verney walked to the house and knocked loudly.

There was no answer. Indeed, he had not expected one, but he wished to make sure that Thomas had not returned from Westerfield sooner than he should.

"It's all right," he whispered. "Now for the anti-burgling."

He wheeled the truck to the side of the gate leading to the shed, and, taking the bag, they passed through. Mr. Verney opened the bag and took out a lantern, a hammer, and a screw-driver.

"We must get this padlock off," he said, and while Mary held the lantern he worked away at the fastenings. It was more difficult than he expected, especially as he did not want to break anything, but to put it back exactly as it had been. Several minutes passed.

"There," he cried; "that's it."

At the same moment a sound of heavy footsteps was heard, and Mary gave a little scream and dropped the lantern.

A strong hand gripped her arm.

"Hullo! Hullo!" said a gruff voice. "What's this? Housebreaking, indeed!"

Mr. Verney had stooped for the lantern, and as he rose the policeman—for he it was—seized him also.

"You'd better come along with me," the policeman said, "and make no trouble about it. The less trouble you make, the easier it'll be for you before the magistrates,"



"But look here," Mr. Verney said, "you're making a mistake. We're not housebreaking."

The policeman laughed. "Now, that's a good 'un," he said. ", screw-driver, hammer, eleven o'clock at night, Thomas Barnes' shed—and you're not housebreaking! Perhaps you'll tell me what you are doing, you and your audacious female accomplice here. Playing hide-and-seek, I suppose?"

"Well," said Mr. Verney, suddenly striking a match with his free hand, and holding it up so that the light fell full on his own and on Mary's face, "we'll tell you the whole story."

"Miss Stavely!" cried the policeman, "and Mr. Verney. Well, this is a start. But what does it all mean.?"

Then Mr. Verney told the story, first making Dobbs promise not to tell it again.

The policeman grew more and more interested as it went on. Finally he exclaimed: "You get the door open, sir, and I'll fetch the truck through. Time's getting along."

He hurried out of the yard and returned carrying the truck on his shoulders. Then he stripped off the felt with his knife and ran it into the shed, beside the old broken-down barrow that had done service for so many years.

Mr. Verney soon had the padlock back in its place as if nothing had happened, and after carefully gathering up the felt they hurried off, in order to get home before Thomas Barnes should call with the medicine that he had been sent to buy.

"Let me carry the bag, sir," the policeman said.

"What, full of burgling tools!" said Mr. Verney.

"Mum's the word," the policeman replied, "mum's the word."

At the forge cottage he wished them good night.

"Then you don't want us in court to-morrow?" Mr. Verney asked.

"Mum's the word," was all that Dobbs replied, with a chuckle.

Thomas Barnes' train being late, Mary did not get to bed until after twelve that night. She laid her head on the pillow with particular satisfaction, for the last and most difficult part of the distribution of Uncle Herbert's money was over.

The next day Mary sent Uncle Herbert a long description of her duties as his almoner, and enclosed the account. What with postages and her railway fare, she had spent altogether £4 18s. 11d.

Two days later this letter came back from Uncle Herbert:

",

"You are as good an almoner as I could wish, and I hope that another chance of setting you to work will come. Put the thirteen pence that are over in a box labelled 'The Almoner's Fund.' Then take the enclosed postal order for a pound and get it cashed, and the next time you are in Westerfield buy Mr. Verney a box of cigarettes, but be sure to find out first what kind he likes. Also give Harry six shillings. I dare say he has broken his bicycle or wants some more films: at any rate, he will not say no. The rest is for yourself to buy something purely for yourself with. Please tell your mother that I am coming on Saturday by the train reaching you at 5.8. I shall walk from the station, but I want Thomas Barnes to fetch my bag.

"Your affectionate "."

Whether or no Thomas Barnes knew where the truck came from we never found out; but at Christmas-time he was discovered among the waits who sang carols on the Stavelys' lawn.