The Baker's Dozen

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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Characters -MAJOR RICHARD DUMBARTONMRS. CAREWEMRS. PALY-PAGETScene--Deck of eastward-bound steamer. Major Dumbarton seated ondeck-chair, another chair by his side, with the name "Mrs. Carewe"painted on it, a third near by.(Enter R. Mrs. Carewe, seats herself leisurely in her deck-chair,the Major affecting to ignore her presence.)Major (turning suddenly): Emily! After all these years! This isfate!Em.: Fate! Nothing of the sort; it's only me. You men are alwayssuch fatalists. I deferred my departure three whole weeks, in orderto come out in the same boat that I saw you were travelling by. Ibribed the steward to put out chairs side by side in an unfrequentedcorner, and I took enormous pains to be looking particularlyattractive this morning, and then you say "This is fate." I AMlooking particularly attractive, am I not?Maj.: More than ever. Time has only added a ripeness to yourcharms.Em.: I knew you'd put it exactly in those words. The phraseologyof love-making is awfully limited, isn't it? After all, the chiefcharm is in the fact of being made love to. You ARE making love tome, aren't you?Maj.: Emily dearest, I had already begun making advances, evenbefore you sat down here. I also bribed the steward to put ourseats together in a secluded corner. "You may consider it done,sir," was his reply. That was immediately after breakfast.Em.: How like a man to have his breakfast first. I attended to theseat business as soon as I left my cabin.Maj.: Don't be unreasonable. It was only at breakfast that Idiscovered your blessed presence on the boat. I paid violent andunusual attention to a flapper all through the meal in order to makeyou jealous. She's probably in her cabin writing reams about me toa fellow-flapper at this very moment.Em.: You needn't have taken all that trouble to make me jealous,Dickie. You did that years ago, when you married another woman.Maj.: Well, you had gone and married another man--a widower, too,at that.Em.: Well, there's no particular harm in marrying a widower, Isuppose. I'm ready to do it again, if I meet a really nice one.Maj.: Look here, Emily, it's not fair to go at that rate. You're alap ahead of me the whole time. It's my place to propose to you;all you've got to do is to say "Yes."Em.: Well, I've practically said it already, so we needn't dawdleover that part.Maj.: Oh, well -(They look at each other, then suddenly embrace with considerableenergy.)Maj.: We dead-heated it that time. (Suddenly jumping to his feet)Oh, d--- I'd forgotten!Em.: Forgotten what?Maj.: The children. I ought to have told you. Do you mindchildren?Em.: Not in moderate quantities. How many have you got?Maj. (counting hurriedly on his fingers): Five.Em.: Five!Maj. (anxiously): Is that too many?Em.: It's rather a number. The worst of it is, I've some myself.Maj.: Many?Em.: Eight.Maj.: Eight in six years! Oh, Emily!Em.: Only four were my own. The other four were by my husband'sfirst marriage. Still, that practically makes eight.Maj.: And eight and five make thirteen. We can't start our marriedlife with thirteen children; it would be most unlucky. (Walks upand down in agitation.) Some way must be found out of this. If wecould only bring them down to twelve. Thirteen is so horriblyunlucky.Em.: Isn't there some way by which we could part with one or two?Don't the French want more children? I've often seen articles aboutit in the FIGARO.Maj.: I fancy they want French children. Mind don't even speakFrench.Em.: There's always a chance that one of them might turn outdepraved and vicious, and then you could disown him. I've heard ofthat being done.Maj.: But, good gracious, you've got to educate him first. Youcan't expect a boy to be vicious till he's been to a good school.Em.: Why couldn't he be naturally depraved. Lots of boys are.Maj.: Only when they inherit it from depraved parents. You don'tsuppose there's any depravity in me, do you?Em.: It sometimes skips a generation, you know. Weren't any ofyour family bad?Maj.: There was an aunt who was never spoken of.Em.: There you are!Maj.: But one can't build too much on that. In mid-Victorian daysthey labelled all sorts of things as unspeakable that we shouldspeak about quite tolerantly. I dare say this particular aunt hadonly married a Unitarian, or rode to hounds on both sides of herhorse, or something of that sort. Anyhow, we can't waitindefinitely for one of the children to take after a doubtfullydepraved great-aunt. Something else must be thought of.Em.: Don't people ever adopt children from other families?Maj.: I've heard of it being done by childless couples, and thosesort of people -Em.: Hush! Some one's coming. Who is it?Maj.: Mrs. Paly-Paget.Em.: The very person!Maj.: What, to adopt a child? Hasn't she got any?Em.: Only one miserable hen-baby.Maj.: Let's sound her on the subject.(Enter Mrs. Paly-Paget, R.)Ah, good morning. Mrs. Paly-Paget. I was just wondering atbreakfast where did we meet last?Mrs. P.-P.: At the Criterion, wasn't it?(Drops into vacant chair.)Maj.: At the Criterion, of course.Mrs. P.-P.: I was dining with Lord and Lady Slugford. Charmingpeople, but so mean. They took us afterwards to the Velodrome, tosee some dancer interpreting Mendelssohn's "song without clothes."We were all packed up in a little box near the roof, and you mayimagine how hot it was. It was like a Turkish bath. And, ofcourse, one couldn't see anything.Maj.: Then it was not like a Turkish bath.Mrs. P.-P.: Major!Em.: We were just talking of you when you joined us.Mrs. P.-P.: Really! Nothing very dreadful, I hope.Em.: Oh dear, no! It's too early on the voyage for that sort ofthing. We were feeling rather sorry for you.Mrs. P.-P.: Sorry for me? Whatever for?Maj.: Your childless hearth and all that, you know. No littlepattering feet.Mrs. P.-P.: Major! How dare you? I've got my little girl, Isuppose you know. Her feet can patter as well as other children's.Maj.: Only one pair of feet.Mrs. P.-P.: Certainly. My child isn't a centipede. Consideringthe way they move us about in those horrid jungle stations, withouta decent bungalow to set one's foot in, I consider I've got ahearthless child, rather than a childless hearth. Thank you foryour sympathy all the same. I dare say it was well meant.Impertinence often is.Em.: Dear Mrs. Paly-Paget, we were only feeling sorry for yoursweet little girl when she grows older, you know. No littlebrothers and sisters to play with.Mrs. P.-P.: Mrs. Carewe, this conversation strikes me as beingindelicate, to say the least of it. I've only been married two anda half years, and my family is naturally a small one.Maj.: Isn't it rather an exaggeration to talk of one little femalechild as a family? A family suggests numbers.Mrs. P.-P.: Really, Major, you language is extraordinary. I daresay I've only got a little female child, as you call it, at present-Maj.: Oh, it won't change into a boy later on, if that's whatyou're counting on. Take our word for it; we've had so much moreexperience in these affairs than you have. Once a female, always afemale. Nature is not infallible, but she always abides by hermistakes.Mrs. P.-P. (rising): Major Dumbarton, these boats are uncomfortablysmall, but I trust we shall find ample accommodation for avoidingeach other's society during the rest of the voyage. The same wishapplies to you, Mrs. Carewe.(Exit Mrs. Paly-Paget, L.)Maj.: What an unnatural mother! (Sinks into chair.)Em.: I wouldn't trust a child with any one who had a temper likehers. Oh, Dickie, why did you go and have such a large family? Youalways said you wanted me to be the mother of your children.Maj.: I wasn't going to wait while you were founding and fosteringdynasties in other directions. Why you couldn't be content to havechildren of your own, without collecting them like batches ofpostage stamps I can't think. The idea of marrying a man with fourchildren!Em.: Well, you're asking me to marry one with five.Maj.: Five! (Springing to his feet) Did I say five?Em.: You certainly said five.Maj.: Oh, Emily, supposing I've miscounted them! Listen now, keepcount with me. Richard--that's after me, of course.Em.: One.Maj.: Albert-Victor--that must have been in Coronation year.Em.: Two!Maj.: Maud. She's called after -Em.: Never mind who's she's called after. Three!Maj.: And Gerald.Em.: Four!Maj.: That's the lot.Em.: Are you sure?Maj.: I swear that's the lot. I must have counted Albert-Victor astwo.Em.: Richard!Maj.: Emily!(They embrace.)

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The Baker's Dozen was featured as TheShort Story of the Day on Fri, Jan 10, 2014

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