IV
We went to Lone Tree, New Jersey. We went there early to meet the migratory spring burglar. We released from storage two chests and three barrels of solid silver wedding presents, took out a burglar insurance for three thousand dollars and proceeded to decorate the dining-room and parlor.
"It looks rather—rather nouveau riche," said Clara, surveying the result.
"My dear, say the word—it is vulgar. But what of that? We have come here for a purpose and we will not be balked. Our object is to offer every facility to the gentlemen who will relieve us of our silver. Nothing concealed, nothing screwed to the floor."
"I think," said Clara, "that the champagne coolers are unnecessary."
The solid silver champagne coolers adorned either side of the fireplace.
"As receptacles for potted ferns they are, it is true, not quite in the best of taste," I admitted. "We might leave them in the hall for umbrellas and canes. But then they might be overlooked, and we must take no chances on a careless burglar."
Clara sat down and began to laugh, which I confess was quite the natural thing to do. Solid silver bread dishes holding sweet peas, individual almond dishes filled with matches, silver baskets for cigars and cigarettes crowded the room, with silver candlesticks sprouting from every ledge and table. The dining-room was worse—but then solid silver terrapin dishes and muffineers, not to mention the two dozen almond dishes left over from the parlor, are not at all appropriate decorations.
"I'm sure the burglars will never come," said Clara, woman fashion.
"If there's anything will keep them away," I said, a little provoked, "it's just that attitude of mind."
"Well, at any rate, I do hope they'll be quick about it, so we can leave this dreadful place."
"They'll never come if you're going to watch them," I said angrily.
We had quite a little quarrel on that point.
The month of June passed and still we remained in possession of our wedding silver. Clara was openly discouraged and if I still clung to my faith, at the bottom I was anxious and impatient. When July passed unfruitfully even our sense of humor was seriously endangered.
"They will never come," said Clara firmly.
"My dear," I replied, "the last time they came in July. All the more reason that they should change to August."
"They will never come," said Clara a second time.
"Let's bait the hook," I said, trying to turn the subject into a facetious vein. "We might strew a dozen or so of those individual dishes down the path to the road."
"They'll never come," said Clara obstinately.
And yet they came.
On the second of August, about two o'clock in the morning I was awakened out of a deep sleep by the voice of my wife crying:
"George, here's a burglar!"
I thought the joke obvious and ill-timed and sleepily said so.
"But, George dear, he's here—in the room!"
There was something in my wife's voice, a note of ringing exultation, that brought me bolt upright in bed.
"Put up your hands—quick!" said a staccato voice.
It was true, there at the end of the bed, flashing the conventional bull's-eye lantern, stood at last a real burglar.
"Put 'em up!"
My hands went heavenward in thanksgiving and gratitude.
"Make a move, you candy dude, or shout for help," continued the voice, shoving into the light the muzzle of a Colt's revolver, "and this for you's!"
The slighting allusion I took to the credit of the pink and white pajamas I wore—but nothing at that moment could have ruffled my feelings. I was bubbling over with happiness. I wanted to jump up and hug him in my arms. I listened. Downstairs could be heard the sound of feet and an occasional metallic ring.
"Oh, George, isn't it too wonderful—wonderful for words!" said Clara, hysterical with joy.
"I can't believe it," I cried.
"Shut up!" said the voice behind the lantern.
"My dear friend," I said conciliatingly, "there's not the slightest need of your keeping your finger on that wabbling, cold thing. My feelings towards you are only the tenderest and the most grateful."
"Huh!"
"The feelings of a brother! My only fear is that you may overlook one or two articles that I admit are not conveniently exposed."
The bull's-eye turned upon me with a sudden jerk.
"Well, I'll be damned!"
"We have waited for you long and patiently. We thought you would never come. In fact, we had sort of lost faith in you. I'm sorry. I apologize. In a way I don't deserve this—I really don't."
"Bughouse!" came from the foot of the bed, in a suppressed mutter. "Out and out bughouse!"
"Quite wrong," I said cheerily. "I never was in better health. You are surprised, you don't understand. It's not necessary you should. It would rob the situation of its humor if you should. All I ask of you is to take everything, don't make a slip, get it all."
"Oh, do, please, please do!" said Clara earnestly.
The silence at the foot of the bed had the force of an exclamation.
"Above all," I continued anxiously, "don't forget the pots. They stand on either side of the fireplace, filled with ferns. They are not pewter. They are solid silver champagne coolers. They are worth—they are worth—"
"Two hundred apiece," said Clara instantly.
"And don't overlook the muffineers, the terrapin dishes and the candlesticks. We should be very much obliged—very grateful if you could find room for them."
Often since I have thought of that burglar and what must have been his sensations. At the time I was too engrossed with my own feelings. Never have I enjoyed a situation more. It is true I noticed as I proceeded our burglar began to edge away towards the door, keeping the lantern steadily on my face.
"And one favor more," I added, "there are several flocks of individual silver almond dishes roosting downstairs—"
"Forty-two," said Clara, "twenty-four in the dining-room and eighteen in the parlor."
"Forty-two is the number; as a last favor please find room for them; if you don't want them drop them in a river or bury them somewhere. We really would appreciate it. It's our last chance."
"All right," said the burglar in an altered tone. "Don't you worry now, we'll attend to that."
"Remember there are forty-two—if you would count them."
"That's all right—just you rest easy," said the burglar soothingly. "I'll see they all get in."
"Really, if I could be of any assistance downstairs," I said anxiously, "I might really help."
"Oh, don't you worry, Bub, my pals are real careful muts," said the burglar nervously. "Now just keep calm. We'll get 'em all."
It suddenly burst upon me that he took me for a lunatic. I buried my head in the covers and rocked back and forth between tears and laughter.
"Hi! what the ——'s going on up there?" cried a voice from downstairs.
"It's all right—all right, Bill," said our burglar hoarsely, "very affable party up here. Say, hurry it up a bit down there, will you?"
All at once it struck me that if I really frightened him too much they might decamp without making a clean sweep. I sobered at once.
"I'm not crazy," I said.
"Sure you're not," said the burglar conciliatingly.
"But I assure you—"
"That's all right."
"I'm perfectly sane."
"Sane as a house!"
"There's nothing to be afraid of."
"Course there isn't. Hi, Bill, won't you hurry up there!"
"I'll explain—"
"Don't you mind that."
"This is the way it is—"
"That's all right, we know all about it."
"You do—"
"Sure, we got your letter."
"What letter?"
"Your telegram then."
"See here, I'm not crazy—"
"You bet you're not," said the burglar, edging towards the door and changing the key.
"Hold up!" I cried in alarm, "don't be a fool. What I want is for you to get everything—everything, do you hear?"
"All right, I'll just go down and speak to him."
"Hold up—"
"I'll tell him."
"Wait," I cried, jumping out of bed in my desire to retain him.
At that moment a whistle came from below and with an exclamation of relief our burglar slammed the door and locked it. We heard him go down three steps at a time and rush out of the house.
"Now you've scared them away," said Clara, "with your idiotic humor."
I felt contrite and alarmed.
"How could I help it?" I said angrily, preparing to climb out on the roof of the porch. "I tried to tell him."
With which I scrambled out on the roof, made my way to the next room and entering, released Clara. At the top of the steps we stood clinging together.
"Suppose they left it all behind," said Clara.
"Or even some!"
"Oh, George, I know it—I know it!"
"Don't be unreasonable—let's go down." Holding a candle aloft we descended. The lower floor was stripped of silver—not even an individual almond dish or a muffineer remained. We fell wildly, hilariously into each other's arms and began to dance. I don't know exactly what it was, but it wasn't a minute.
Suddenly Clara stopped.
"George!"
"Oh, Lord, what is it?"
"Supposin'."
"Well—well?"
"Supposin' they've dropped some of it in the path."
We rushed out and searched the path, nothing there. We searched the road—one individual almond dish had fallen. I took it and hammered it beyond recognition and flung it into the pond. It was criminal, but I did it.
And then we went into the house and danced some more. We were happy.
Of course we raised an alarm—after sufficient time to carefully dress, and fill the lantern with oil. Other houses too had been robbed before we had been visited, but as they were occupied by old inhabitants, the occupants had nonchalantly gone to sleep again after surrendering their small change. Our exploit was quite the sensation. With great difficulty we assumed the proper public attitude of shock and despair. The following day I wrote full particulars to the Insurance Company, with a demand for the indemnity.
"You'll never get the full amount," said Clara.
"Why not?"
"You never do. They'll send a man to ask disagreeable questions and to beat us down."
"Let him come."
"You'll see."
Just one week after the event, I opened an official envelope, extracted a check, gazed at it with a superior smile and tendered it to Clara by the tips of my fingers.
"Three thousand dollars!" cried Clara, without contrition, "three thousand dollars—oh, George!"
There it was—three thousand dollars, without a shred of doubt. Womanlike, all Clara had to say was:
"Well, was I right about the wedding presents?"
Which remark I had not foreseen.
We shut up house and went to town next day and began the rounds of the jewelers. In four days we had expended four-fifths of our money—but with what results! Everything we had longed for, planned for, dreamed of was ours and everything harmonized.
Two weeks later as, ensconced in our city house, we moved enraptured about our new-found home, gazing at the reincarnation of our silver, a telegram was put in my hand.
"What is it?" said Clara from the dining-room, where she was fondling our chaste Queen Anne teaset.
"It's a telegram," I said, puzzled.
"Open it, then!"
I tore the envelope, it was from the Insurance Company.
"Our detectives have arrested the burglars. You will be overjoyed to hear that we have recovered your silver in toto!"