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!"