Maybe real burglars don't all talk that way—only the ones on TV.
Still, he sure picked that lock fast, and he was sure down in that cellar for some reason of his own.
Maybe I ought to let someone know.
I figure I'll test Pop out, just casual like.
"Some queer-looking types hanging around this neighborhood," I say at dinner.
"I saw a tough-looking guy hanging around Number Forty-six this afternoon. Might have been a burglar, even."
I figure Pop'll at least ask me what he was doing, and maybe I'll tell him the whole thing—about Cat and the cage.
But Pop says, "In case you didn't know it, burglars do not all look like Humphrey Bogart, and they don't wear signs."
"Thanks for the news," I say and go on eating my dinner. Even if Pop does make me sore, I'm not going to pass up steak and onions, which we don't have very often.
However, the next day I'm walking along Twenty-first Street and I see the super of Forty-six standing by the back entrance, so I figure I'll try again.