The Seven Cream Jugs

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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"I suppose we shall never see Wilfred Pigeoncote here now that he hasbecome heir to the baronetcy and to a lot of money," observed Mrs. PeterPigeoncote regretfully to her husband. "Well, we can hardly expect to," he replied, "seeing that we alwayschoked him off from coming to see us when he was a prospective nobody. Idon't think I've set eyes on him since he was a boy of twelve." "There was a reason for not wanting to encourage his acquaintanceship,"said Mrs. Peter. "With that notorious failing of his he was not the sortof person one wanted in one's house." "Well, the failing still exists, doesn't it?" said her husband; "or doyou suppose a reform of character is entailed along with the estate?" "Oh, of course, there is still that drawback," admitted the wife, "butone would like to make the acquaintance of the future head of the family,if only out of mere curiosity. Besides, cynicism apart, his being richwill make a difference in the way people will look at his failing. Whena man is absolutely wealthy, not merely well-to-do, all suspicion ofsordid motive naturally disappears; the thing becomes merely a tiresomemalady." Wilfrid Pigeoncote had suddenly become heir to his uncle, Sir WilfridPigeoncote, on the death of his cousin, Major Wilfrid Pigeoncote, who hadsuccumbed to the after-effects of a polo accident. (A Wilfrid Pigeoncotehad covered himself with honours in the course of Marlborough'scampaigns, and the name Wilfrid had been a baptismal weakness in thefamily ever since.) The new heir to the family dignity and estates was ayoung man of about five-and-twenty, who was known more by reputation thanby person to a wide circle of cousins and kinsfolk. And the reputationwas an unpleasant one. The numerous other Wilfrids in the family weredistinguished one from another chiefly by the names of their residencesor professions, as Wilfrid of Hubbledown, and young Wilfrid the Gunner,but this particular scion was known by the ignominious and expressivelabel of Wilfrid the Snatcher. From his late schooldays onward he hadbeen possessed by an acute and obstinate form of kleptomania; he had theacquisitive instinct of the collector without any of the collector'sdiscrimination. Anything that was smaller and more portable than asideboard, and above the value of ninepence, had an irresistibleattraction for him, provided that it fulfilled the necessary condition ofbelonging to some one else. On the rare occasions when he was includedin a country-house party, it was usual and almost necessary for his host,or some member of the family, to make a friendly inquisition through hisbaggage on the eve of his departure, to see if he had packed up "bymistake" any one else's property. The search usually produced a largeand varied yield. "This is funny," said Peter Pigeoncote to his wife, some half-hour aftertheir conversation; "here's a telegram from Wilfrid, saying he's passingthrough here in his motor, and would like to stop and pay us hisrespects. Can stay for the night if it doesn't inconvenience us. Signed'Wilfrid Pigeoncote.' Must be the Snatcher; none of the others have amotor. I suppose he's bringing us a present for the silver wedding." "Good gracious!" said Mrs. Peter, as a thought struck her; "this israther an awkward time to have a person with his failing in the house.All those silver presents set out in the drawing-room, and others comingby every post; I hardly know what we've got and what are still to come.We can't lock them all up; he's sure to want to see them." "We must keep a sharp look-out, that's all," said Peter reassuringly. "But these practised kleptomaniacs are so clever," said his wife,apprehensively, "and it will be so awkward if he suspects that we arewatching him." Awkwardness was indeed the prevailing note that evening when the passingtraveller was being entertained. The talk flitted nervously andhurriedly from one impersonal topic to another. The guest had none ofthe furtive, half-apologetic air that his cousins had rather expected tofind; he was polite, well-assured, and, perhaps, just a little inclinedto "put on side". His hosts, on the other hand, wore an uneasy mannerthat might have been the hallmark of conscious depravity. In the drawing-room, after dinner, their nervousness and awkwardness increased. "Oh, we haven't shown you the silver-wedding presents," said Mrs. Peter,suddenly, as though struck by a brilliant idea for entertaining theguest; "here they all are. Such nice, useful gifts. A few duplicates,of course." "Seven cream jugs," put in Peter. "Yes, isn't it annoying," went on Mrs. Peter; "seven of them. We feelthat we must live on cream for the rest of our lives. Of course, some ofthem can be changed." Wilfrid occupied himself chiefly with such of the gifts as were ofantique interest, carrying one or two of them over to the lamp to examinetheir marks. The anxiety of his hosts at these moments resembled thesolicitude of a cat whose newly born kittens are being handed round forinspection. "Let me see; did you give me back the mustard-pot? This is its placehere," piped Mrs. Peter. "Sorry. I put it down by the claret-jug," said Wilfrid, busy withanother object. "Oh, just let me have the sugar-sifter again," asked Mrs. Peter, doggeddetermination showing through her nervousness; "I must label it who itcomes from before I forget." Vigilance was not completely crowned with a sense of victory. After theyhad said "Good-night" to their visitor, Mrs. Peter expressed herconviction that he had taken something. "I fancy, by his manner, that there was something up," corroborated herhusband; "do you miss anything?" Mrs. Peters hastily counted the array of gifts. "I can only make it thirty-four, and I think it should be thirty-five,"she announced; "I can't remember if thirty-five includes the Archdeacon'scruet-stand that hasn't arrived yet." "How on earth are we to know?" said Peter. "The mean pig hasn't broughtus a present, and I'm hanged if he shall carry one off." "To-morrow, when's he having his bath," said Mrs. Peter excitedly, "he'ssure to leave his keys somewhere, and we can go through his portmanteau.It's the only thing to do." On the morrow an alert watch was kept by the conspirators behind half-closed doors, and when Wilfrid, clad in a gorgeous bath-robe, had madehis way to the bath-room, there was a swift and furtive rush by twoexcited individuals towards the principal guest-chamber. Mrs. Peter keptguard outside, while her husband first made a hurried and successfulsearch for the keys, and then plunged at the portmanteau with the air ofa disagreeably conscientious Customs official. The quest was a briefone; a silver cream jug lay embedded in the folds of some zephyr shirts. "The cunning brute," said Mrs. Peters; "he took a cream jug because therewere so many; he thought one wouldn't be missed. Quick, fly down with itand put it back among the others." Wilfrid was late in coming down to breakfast, and his manner showedplainly that something was amiss. "It's an unpleasant thing to have to say," he blurted out presently, "butI'm afraid you must have a thief among your servants. Something's beentaken out of my portmanteau. It was a little present from my mother andmyself for your silver wedding. I should have given it to you last nightafter dinner, only it happened to be a cream jug, and you seemed annoyedat having so many duplicates, so I felt rather awkward about giving youanother. I thought I'd get it changed for something else, and now it'sgone." "Did you say it was from your _mother_ and yourself?" asked Mr. and Mrs.Peter almost in unison. The Snatcher had been an orphan these manyyears. "Yes, my mother's at Cairo just now, and she wrote to me at Dresden totry and get you something quaint and pretty in the old silver line, and Ipitched on this cream jug." Both the Pigeoncotes had turned deadly pale. The mention of Dresden hadthrown a sudden light on the situation. It was Wilfrid the Attache, avery superior young man, who rarely came within their social horizon,whom they had been entertaining unawares in the supposed character ofWilfrid the Snatcher. Lady Ernestine Pigeoncote, his mother, moved incircles which were entirely beyond their compass or ambitions, and theson would probably one day be an Ambassador. And they had rifled anddespoiled his portmanteau! Husband and wife looked blankly anddesperately at one another. It was Mrs. Peter who arrived first at aninspiration. "How dreadful to think there are thieves in the house! We keep thedrawing-room locked up at night, of course, but anything might be carriedoff while we are at breakfast." She rose and went out hurriedly, as though to assure herself that thedrawing-room was not being stripped of its silverware, and returned amoment later, bearing a cream jug in her hands. "There are eight cream jugs now, instead of seven," she cried; "this onewasn't there before. What a curious trick of memory, Mr. Wilfrid! Youmust have slipped downstairs with it last night and put it there beforewe locked up, and forgotten all about having done it in the morning." "One's mind often plays one little tricks like that," said Mr. Peter,with desperate heartiness. "Only the other day I went into the town topay a bill, and went in again next day, having clean forgotten that I'd--" "It is certainly the jug I bought for you," said Wilfrid, looking closelyat it; "it was in my portmanteau when I got my bath-robe out thismorning, before going to my bath, and it was not there when I unlockedthe portmanteau on my return. Some one had taken it while I was awayfrom the room." The Pigeoncotes had turned paler than ever. Mrs. Peter had a finalinspiration. "Get me my smelling-salts, dear," she said to her husband; "I thinkthey're in the dressing-room." Peter dashed out of the room with glad relief; he had lived so longduring the last few minutes that a golden wedding seemed withinmeasurable distance. Mrs. Peter turned to her guest with confidential coyness. "A diplomat like you will know how to treat this as if it hadn'thappened. Peter's little weakness; it runs in the family." "Good Lord! Do you mean to say he's a kleptomaniac, like CousinSnatcher?" "Oh, not exactly," said Mrs. Peter, anxious to whitewash her husband alittle greyer than she was painting him. "He would never touch anythinghe found lying about, but he can't resist making a raid on things thatare locked up. The doctors have a special name for it. He must havepounced on your portmanteau the moment you went to your bath, and takenthe first thing he came across. Of course, he had no motive for taking acream jug; we've already got _seven_, as you know--not, of course, thatwe don't value the kind of gift you and your mother--hush here's Petercoming." Mrs. Peter broke off in some confusion, and tripped out to meet herhusband in the hall. "It's all right," she whispered to him; "I've explained everything. Don'tsay anything more about it." "Brave little woman," said Peter, with a gasp of relief; "I could neverhave done it." * * * * * Diplomatic reticence does not necessarily extend to family affairs. PeterPigeoncote was never able to understand why Mrs. Consuelo van Bullyon,who stayed with them in the spring, always carried two very obvious jewel-cases with her to the bath-room, explaining them to any one she chancedto meet in the corridor as her manicure and face-massage set.

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