The Baker's Dozen
by H.H. Munro (SAKI)
The Baker's Dozen is a witty one-act playlet in which a hostess must seat thirteen guests at dinner — a number that proves more troublesome than any menu. "Thirteen is an unlucky number at dinner."
Characters - MAJOR RICHARD DUMBARTON MRS. CAREWE MRS. PALY-PAGET
Scene--Deck of eastward-bound steamer. Major Dumbarton seated on deck-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 is fate!
Em.: Fate! Nothing of the sort; it's only me. You men are always such fatalists. I deferred my departure three whole weeks, in order to come out in the same boat that I saw you were travelling by. I bribed the steward to put out chairs side by side in an unfrequented corner, and I took enormous pains to be looking particularly attractive this morning, and then you say "This is fate." I AM looking particularly attractive, am I not?
Maj.: More than ever. Time has only added a ripeness to your charms.
Em.: I knew you'd put it exactly in those words. The phraseology of love-making is awfully limited, isn't it? After all, the chief charm is in the fact of being made love to. You ARE making love to me, aren't you?
Maj.: Emily dearest, I had already begun making advances, even before you sat down here. I also bribed the steward to put our seats 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 the seat business as soon as I left my cabin.
Maj.: Don't be unreasonable. It was only at breakfast that I discovered your blessed presence on the boat. I paid violent and unusual attention to a flapper all through the meal in order to make you jealous. She's probably in her cabin writing reams about me to a 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, I suppose. 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 a lap 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 dawdle over that part.
Maj.: Oh, well -
(They look at each other, then suddenly embrace with considerable energy.)
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 mind children?
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's first marriage. Still, that practically makes eight.
Maj.: And eight and five make thirteen. We can't start our married life with thirteen children; it would be most unlucky. (Walks up and down in agitation.) Some way must be found out of this. If we could only bring them down to twelve. Thirteen is so horribly unlucky.
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 about it in the FIGARO.
Maj.: I fancy they want French children. Mind don't even speak French.
Em.: There's always a chance that one of them might turn out depraved and vicious, and then you could disown him. I've heard of that being done.
Maj.: But, good gracious, you've got to educate him first. You can'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't suppose there's any depravity in me, do you?
Em.: It sometimes skips a generation, you know. Weren't any of your 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 days they labelled all sorts of things as unspeakable that we should speak about quite tolerantly. I dare say this particular aunt had only married a Unitarian, or rode to hounds on both sides of her horse, or something of that sort. Anyhow, we can't wait indefinitely for one of the children to take after a doubtfully depraved 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 those sort 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 at breakfast 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. Charming people, but so mean. They took us afterwards to the Velodrome, to see some dancer interpreting Mendelssohn's "song without clothes." We were all packed up in a little box near the roof, and you may imagine how hot it was. It was like a Turkish bath. And, of course, 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 of thing. 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 little pattering feet.
Mrs. P.-P.: Major! How dare you? I've got my little girl, I suppose 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. Considering the way they move us about in those horrid jungle stations, without a decent bungalow to set one's foot in, I consider I've got a hearthless child, rather than a childless hearth. Thank you for your 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 your sweet little girl when she grows older, you know. No little brothers and sisters to play with.
Mrs. P.-P.: Mrs. Carewe, this conversation strikes me as being indelicate, to say the least of it. I've only been married two and a half years, and my family is naturally a small one.
Maj.: Isn't it rather an exaggeration to talk of one little female child as a family? A family suggests numbers.
Mrs. P.-P.: Really, Major, you language is extraordinary. I dare say 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 what you're counting on. Take our word for it; we've had so much more experience in these affairs than you have. Once a female, always a female. Nature is not infallible, but she always abides by her mistakes.
Mrs. P.-P. (rising): Major Dumbarton, these boats are uncomfortably small, but I trust we shall find ample accommodation for avoiding each other's society during the rest of the voyage. The same wish applies 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 like hers. Oh, Dickie, why did you go and have such a large family? You always said you wanted me to be the mother of your children.
Maj.: I wasn't going to wait while you were founding and fostering dynasties in other directions. Why you couldn't be content to have children of your own, without collecting them like batches of postage stamps I can't think. The idea of marrying a man with four children!
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, keep count 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 as two.
Em.: Richard!
Maj.: Emily!
(They embrace.)
Frequently Asked Questions about The Baker's Dozen
What is "The Baker's Dozen" by Saki about?
"The Baker's Dozen" is a one-act playlet set on the deck of an eastward-bound steamer. Major Richard Dumbarton and Mrs. Emily Carewe, former sweethearts who each married someone else, discover they are on the same voyage. Both now widowed, they quickly rekindle their romance and agree to marry. The crisis arrives when they tally their combined children: the Major believes he has five, Emily has eight (four of her own and four stepchildren), making a total of thirteen — a disastrously unlucky number. Their frantic schemes to reduce the count — including trying to offload a child on the prickly Mrs. Paly-Paget — fail spectacularly, until the Major realizes he miscounted, having tallied his son Albert-Victor as two. The real total is twelve, and the couple embraces in relief.
What are the main themes of "The Baker's Dozen"?
The dominant theme is superstition and its power over otherwise rational people. The Major and Emily are intelligent adults, yet they allow the number thirteen to throw their entire engagement into doubt. Closely related is the comedy of remarriage: satirizes how the practical logistics of blended families — counting children like cargo — undercut the romantic reunion. There is also a sharp thread of class snobbery and social performance, particularly in the couple's clumsy attempt to palm off a child on Mrs. Paly-Paget by feigning sympathy for her "childless hearth." Finally, self-deception runs throughout: the Major cannot even keep an accurate count of his own offspring, suggesting that the elaborate romantic narrative they construct is built on shaky foundations.
Why is the story called "The Baker's Dozen"?
A baker's dozen traditionally means thirteen — one more than the standard twelve. uses the phrase as a comic metaphor for the couple's predicament: their combined children number thirteen, one too many for comfort. The title also carries an ironic edge. In baking, a thirteenth item is a bonus, something extra and welcome. Here, the thirteenth child is the opposite — an unwanted surplus that threatens to cancel a wedding. The twist ending, in which the Major discovers he miscounted and there are only twelve children after all, turns the title into a joke about arithmetic anxiety rather than any real problem.
Why is "The Baker's Dozen" written as a play instead of a regular short story?
wrote several of his stories as one-act playlets — short dramatic sketches with stage directions, dialogue, and named character entrances. The playlet form suits "The Baker's Dozen" perfectly because the humor depends on rapid-fire comic timing, quick repartee between the Major and Emily, and the farcical entrance and exit of Mrs. Paly-Paget. With no narrator to editorialize, every joke lands through the characters' own words, giving the piece the feel of an Edwardian drawing-room comedy compressed into a few pages. Saki used the same format in other pieces, blending fiction and theater in a way that anticipated the modern one-act play.
Who are the main characters in "The Baker's Dozen"?
There are three characters. Major Richard Dumbarton is a widower with four children (though he initially miscounts them as five). He is impulsive, romantic, and comically superstitious about the number thirteen. Mrs. Emily Carewe is equally eager to remarry; she is more calculating than the Major — she arranged the adjacent deck chairs and timed her appearance — but just as rattled by the unlucky number. Mrs. Paly-Paget is a sharp-tongued minor character who becomes the unwitting target of the couple's scheme to reduce their child count. She has one young daughter, a fact the Major tactlessly belittles as insufficient to constitute a "family," prompting her indignant exit.
What role does superstition play in the story?
Superstition is the engine of the entire plot. The moment the Major and Emily calculate that their combined children total thirteen, the engagement stalls — not because of any practical difficulty in raising thirteen children, but because thirteen is "horribly unlucky." never has the characters question why thirteen is unlucky; they accept it as an absolute law. This mirrors the Edwardian upper class's curious blend of rational self-image and irrational habits. The comedy deepens when their proposed solutions — deporting a child to France, hoping one turns out "depraved" enough to disown — are far more absurd than living with an unlucky number. The resolution, a simple miscount, suggests the whole crisis was imaginary from the start.
How does Saki use humor in "The Baker's Dozen"?
layers several comic techniques. Bathos is constant: the romantic reunion collapses into arithmetic. Wit through understatement appears in lines like "I don't mind children — not in moderate quantities," which reduces motherhood to a dosage problem. Comic escalation drives the middle section, as proposed solutions grow increasingly outlandish — from donating a child to the French, to waiting for one to become "naturally depraved." The farcical scene with Mrs. Paly-Paget uses dramatic irony: the audience knows the couple's real motive, while Mrs. Paly-Paget does not. Finally, the punchline is pure anticlimactic deflation — the terrible problem of thirteen children vanishes when the Major realizes he simply counted wrong.
How does "The Baker's Dozen" compare to Saki's other stories?
"The Baker's Dozen" belongs to 's lighter comic register. It lacks the sinister edge of stories like "Sredni Vashtar" or "Gabriel-Ernest," where dark consequences are real. Instead, it shares the social farce of "The Open Window," where misunderstanding drives the comedy, and the witty banter of "Tobermory." The blended-family premise also anticipates the domestic absurdity found in "The Lumber Room," though that story centers on a child outsmarting adults. What all these share is Saki's signature move: exposing the gap between how his characters see themselves and how they actually behave.
What is the significance of the Mrs. Paly-Paget scene?
The Mrs. Paly-Paget scene is the comic centerpiece of the playlet. The Major and Emily hatch a transparently self-serving scheme: they will convince Mrs. Paly-Paget to adopt one of their children by pretending to pity her for having only one daughter. The scheme fails instantly because their "sympathy" is so clumsy it becomes insulting. Mrs. Paly-Paget sees through the condescension, delivers a withering exit line, and storms off. The scene works on multiple levels: it satirizes colonial-era social manipulation (the setting is an eastward-bound steamer, likely heading to India), exposes the couple's willingness to treat children as transferable assets, and provides a comic foil whose righteous anger contrasts with the couple's absurd priorities.
What is the twist ending of "The Baker's Dozen"?
The twist is beautifully simple. After all the panic and scheming over thirteen children, the Major suddenly realizes he miscounted his own children. He counted his son Albert-Victor — whose hyphenated name sounded like two people — as two separate children. His actual total is four, not five, making the combined family twelve, not thirteen. The unlucky number vanishes, the couple embraces, and the crisis is over. The ending is a classic deflation: an elaborate problem dissolved by the most mundane of causes. It also delivers a final satiric jab — a father who cannot accurately count his own children is perhaps not the most reliable foundation for a new family. Readers of will recognize a kindred love of the surprise ending, though Saki's version leans toward absurdist irony rather than sentimental reversal.
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