Then we put the "eleven" in its place, turn the
knob forward one revolution, and put on our hat and go out and take a
drink. That is in the programme, and we sometimes think the inventor of
the lock is interested in a brewery. Then we come back, wipe our mustache
on the tail of a linen coat, place the figures "44" directly over the
pointer, whistle "There's a land that is fairer than this," place the
right foot forward, then turn the knob, the door swings on its hinges, and
the untold wealth of the Indies lies before us, in our alleged mind.
O, safe, are you honest? Are you true to us? You look pure and chaste, and
your new overskirt of varnish, and your puffed ruching of gold and blue
sets you off to good advantage, but you may not be impregnable. You have
always gone in good society, and no scandal has ever been attached to your
name. Your purity and innocence has been remarked by all who have met you,
and there are none who would dare to intimate but that you would maintain
your reputation against any attack, but sometimes we think we should
hesitate to leave you all alone, with the light turned down all night and
over Sunday, in the company of an eloquent, persuasive, good-looking
burglar armed with a jimmy, and we fear that his warm hearted can of
powder would strike a responsive chord in your impulsive nature, and that
you would yield up the jewels confined to you, and your honor, your
reputation, your standing among safes would be forever ruined.
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