Burglars!

BURGLARS came to our house last night, but they did not get in. My wife is sure they would have gained an entrance in another five minutes, but something frightened them away. I cannot claim that it was I who frightened them. It is never well to act with too great haste, and when Sylvia warned me that they were trying to force the dining-room window, I determined not to be rash but to formulate a plan — a cool, deliberate, comprehensive plan; but before I could mature an entirely satisfactory one, something frightened them away, for we heard nothing more from them; they had time, however, craftily to remove all traces of their presence under the window, for we found none in the morning.

Sylvia had heard them coming from very far away. Our little home is on a very quiet street of a very quiet suburb, and sounds at night carry very far. These burglars were singing when Sylvia first called my sleepy attention to them. I had objected that I did not believe that burglars were in the habit of approaching their toil with songs on their lips like operatic apprentices; but Sylvia said that was just their artfulness, and so it proved: for the sounds of song and footsteps came nearer, and nearer, and nearer, and then passed and died away in the distance. And then, when I had been thrown completely off my guard, — had, in fact, again fallen asleep, — and only Sylvia was alert, just the faintest sound under the dining-room window where the lilac bushes hide it from the street, and t hen just the tiniest, tiniest whispering sound, — no, not at all like branches rubbing in the wind, — and then a little creaking noise that could n’t have been the chirp of an insect; and then something must have frightened them away.

Of course it was the heirloom silver tea-service, which had belonged to Sylvia’s grandmother, that they were seeking. Burglars have been trying to get that teapot, cream-jug and sugarbowl ever since Sylvia inherited them. The silver is pretty enough, and the shape of the cream-jug is, I understand, perfectly fascinating to those who appreciate such things; but their intrinsic value is not so great that I can easily imagine men risking their lives or at least their liberties, in their desire to possess them; and the lust of the burglar after these particular treasures is quite inexplicable to me.

But Sylvia knows much more about burglars than I do. There is the matter of ‘locking up at night,’ for instance. I used to reason, in my stupid and inexcusably careless way, that, if a burglar felt obsessed with a desire to enter any particular house, he went there at the proper time of night, equipped with all necessary tools, and proceeded to attack the premises from what he had decided to be the best strategic point; and that no ordinary lock or bar entered into his considerations. Indeed, I remember reading of a burglary where the conscientious and hard-working operator had expended much time and ingenuity and a considerable quantity of nitroglycerin in forcing open a large office-safe which, it happened, had not been locked that night, and which he might have ascertained to be empty of valuables by merely turning the handle.

It seems however that you must see that everything is locked up (Sylvia’s father always did); and if you cannot say, when questioned at the moment of stepping into bed, that you are perfectly sure you latched every window, you might just as well go down at once and see that it is done. It is silly to say it won’t matter for once. Do you want to have them get Grandma Spicer’s tea-service?

I think Sylvia must believe in a kind of thought-transference, by which an unlatched window or unlocked door sends out vibratory messages to all burglars in the neighborhood. I can fancy Mr. William Sikes in the bosom of his family, taking a night off from his profession, his children around his knee listening open-mouthed to the marvelous stories of his adventures, and shouting with glee at some tale of the discomfiture of the police; his good wife mending, perhaps, a professional black mask, and smiling in enjoyment of his unwonted society. But something seems to ail him. His attention wanders, and at last he speaks.

‘It’s no use, dear,’ he says to the partner of his joys and risks; ‘I did hope for a quiet evening at home with you and the kiddies; but something keeps telling me that Mr. Allen forgot to lock the dining-room window tonight. I’m sorry, darling, but you see how it is, don’t you? It would be most unprofessional not to go, and I may never again have such another chance for Grandma Spicer’s silver. — Never mind, kiddies, papa will bring you home something pretty in the morning.’ And he goes out into the night.

Sylvia is still a little uncertain about what to do when burglars have actually entered the house. So far in our married life they have never obtained an entrance; but we have had several rehearsals on occasions when Sylvia thought they had. Sylvia’s father, it appears, loves to go down in search of them, armed with whatever weapon he can snatch up at the moment. Sylvia does not wish me to risk my life too rashly, but seems to have little apprehension that I shall do so. I think, myself, that a capital plan is to call out loudly, ‘Is that you, George? Hector seems to be a little restless, He is growling dreadfully. I ’ll unchain him and send him down to you, and I wish you’d let him out for a little run.’

Another suggested artifice of mine is to make as much noise as possible with my shoes on the floor, and laugh savagely, as if with the joy of battle. Again, having read that there is nothing a burglar dreads so much as a crying infant, I have proposed that I should learn to imitate one until such time as we shall be supplied with the genuine article, which could be awakened and pinched. But Sylvia seems to think all these suggestions, if not actually unmanly, at least a little undignified, and the last one really horrid.

So we still have no clearly conceived plan of action as to what I shall do if I ever leave a ground-floor window unlatched, and Sylvia forgets to question me; but, gentle reader, if you happen to be a burglar, do not, after reading this, count too much on my unpreparedness. I shall undoubtedly have a most unpleasant surprise prepared for you, and, moreover, I assure you that of that commodity which since a recent constitutional amendment is more desired by your profession than even Grandma Spicer’s silver, there is only a little, a very little in the house.