Accordin' to some authorities, a person, before they get married, should
ought to look up your opponent's family tree and find out what all her
relatives died of. But the way I got it figured out, if you're sure they
did die, the rest of it don't make no difference. In exceptionable cases
it may be all right to take a girl that part of her family is still
livin', but not under no circumstances if the part happens to be a
unmarried sister named Bessie.
We was expectin' her in about two weeks, but we got a card Saturday
mornin' which she says on it that she'd come right away if it was all
the same to us, because it was the dull season in Wabash society and she
could tear loose better at the present time than later on. Well, I guess
they ain't no time in the year when society in Wabash would collapse for
she not bein' there, but if she had to come at all, the sooner it was
over the better. And besides, it wouldn't of did us no good to say aye,
yes or no, because the postcard only beat her here by a few hours.
Not havin' no idear she was comin' so soon I didn't meet the train, but
it seems like she brought her escort right along with her. It was a guy
named Bishop and she'd met him on the trip up. The news butcher
introduced them, I guess. He seen her safe to the house and she was
there when I got home. Her and my Missus was full of him.
"Just think!" the Missus says. "He writes motion-pitcher plays."
"And gets ten thousand a year," says Bess.
"Did you find out from the firm?" I ast her.
"He told me himself," says Bessie.
"That's the right kind o' fella," says I, "open and above the board."
"Oh, you'll like Mr. Bishop," says Bess. "He says such funny things."
"Yes," I says, "that's a pretty good one about the ten thousand a year.
But I suppose it's funnier when he tells it himself. I wisht I could
meet him."
"They won't be no trouble about that," says the Missus. "He's comin' to
dinner to-morrow and he's comin' to play cards some evenin' next week."
"What evenin'?" I says.
"Any evenin' that's convenient for you," says Bessie.
"Well," I says, "I'm sorry, but I got engagements every night except
Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday."
"What about Tuesday?" ast Bessie.
"We're goin' to the op'ra," I says.
"Oh, won't that be grand!" says Bessie. "I wonder what I can wear."
"A kimono'll be all right," I says. "If the door-bell rings, you don't
have to answer it."
"What do you mean?" says the Missus. "I guess if we go, Bess'll go with
us."
"You'd starve to death if you guessed for a livin'," I says.
"Never mind that kind o' talk," says the Missus. "When we got a visitor
we're not goin' out places nights and leave her here alone."
"What's the matter with Bishop?" I says. "They's lots o' two-handed card
games."
"I ain't goin' to force myself on to you," says Bessie. "You don't have
to take me nowheres if you don't want to."
"I wisht you'd put that in writin' in case of a lawsuit," I says.
"Listen here," says the Frau. "Get this straight: Either Bess goes or I
don't go."
"You can both stay home," says I. "I don't anticipate no trouble findin'
a partner."
"All right, that's settled," says the Missus. "We'll have a party of our
own."
And it must of been goin' to be a dandy, because just speakin' about it
made her cry. So I says:
"You win! But I'll prob'ly have to change the tickets."
"What kind o' tickets have you got?" ast the Missus.
"Cheap ones," I says. "Down-stairs, five per."
"How grand!" says Bessie.
"Yes," I says, "but I'm afraid I got the last two they had. I'll prob'ly
have to give them back and take three balcony seats."
"That's all right, just so's Bess goes," says the Wife.
"Mr. Bishop's wild about music," says Bessie.
"Well," I says, "he prob'ly gets passes to the pitcher houses."
"He don't hear no real music there," says Bessie.
"Well," says I, "suppose when he comes to-morrow, I mention somethin'
about I and the Missus havin' tickets to the op'ra Tuesday night. Then,
if he's so wild about music, he'll maybe try to horn into the party and
split the expenses fifty-fifty."
"That'd be a fine thing!" says the Frau. "He'd think we was a bunch o'
cheap skates. Come right out and ask him to go at your expense, or else
don't ask him at all."
"I won't ask him at all," I says. "It was a mistake for me to ever
suggest it."
"Yes," says Bessie, "but after makin' the suggestion it would be a mean
trick to not go through with it."
"Why?" I ast her. "He won't never know the difference."
"But I will," says Bessie.
"Course you would, dear," says the Missus. "After thinkin' you was goin'
to have a man of your own, the party wouldn't seem like no party if you
just went along with us."
"All right, all right," I says. "Let's not argue no more. Every time I
open my head it costs three dollars."
"No such a thing," says the Missus. "The whole business won't only be
two dollars more than you figured on. The tickets you had for the two of
us would come to ten dollars, and with Bess and Mr. Bishop goin' it's
only twelve, if you get balcony seats."
"I wonder," says Bessie, "if Mr. Bishop wouldn't object to settin' in
the balcony."
"Maybe he would," says the Missus.
"Well," I says, "if he gets dizzy and falls over the railin' they's
plenty of ushers to point out where he come from."
"They ain't no danger of him gettin' dizzy," says Bessie. "The only
thing is that he's prob'ly used to settin' in the high-priced seats and
would be embarrassed amongst the riff and raff."
"He can wear a false mustache for a disguise."
"He's got a real one," says Bessie.
"He can shave it off, then," says I.
"I wouldn't have him do that for the world," says Bessie. "It's too nice
a one."
"You can't judge a mustache by seein' it oncet," I says. "It may be a
crook at heart."
"This ain't gettin' us nowheres," says the Missus. "They's still a
question before the house."
"It's up to Bess to give the answer," I says. "Bishop and his lip shield
are invited if they'll set in a three-dollar seat."
"It's off, then," says Bessie, and beats it in the guest room and slams
the door.
"What's the matter with you?" says the Missus.
"Nothin' at all," I says, "except that I ain't no millionaire scenario
writer. Twenty dollars is twenty dollars."
"Yes," the Missus says, "but how many times have you lost more than that
playin' cards and not thought nothin' of it?"
"That's different," I says. "When I spend money in a card game it's more
like a investment. I got a chance to make somethin' by it."
"And this would be a investment, too," says the Wife, "and a whole lot
better chance o' winnin' than in one o' them crooked card games."
"What are you gettin' at?" I ast her.
"This is what I'm gettin' at," she says, "though you'd ought to see it
without me tellin' you. This here Bishop's made a big hit with Bess."
"It's been done before," says I.
"Listen to me," says the Frau. "It's high time she was gettin' married,
and I don't want her marryin' none o' them Hoosier hicks."
"They'll see to that," I says. "They ain't such hicks."
"She could do a lot worse than take this here Bishop," the Missus says.
"Ten thousand a year ain't no small change. And she'd be here in Chi;
maybe they could find a flat right in this buildin'."
"That's all right," I says. "We could move."
"Don't be so smart," says the Missus. "It would be mighty nice for me to
have her so near and it would be nice for you and I both to have a rich
brother-in-law."
"I don't know about that," says I. "Somebody might do us a mischief in a
fit o' jealous rage."
"He'd show us enough good times to make up for whatever they done," says
the Wife. "We're foolish if we don't make no play for him and it'd be
startin' off right to take him along to this here op'ra and set him in
the best seats. He likes good music and you can see he's used to doin'
things in style. And besides, sis looks her best when she's dressed up."
Well, I finally give in and the Missus called Bessie out o' the
despondents' ward and they was all smiles and pep, but they acted like I
wasn't in the house; so, to make it realistical, I blowed down to Andy's
and looked after some o' my other investments.
* * * * *
We always have dinner Sundays at one o'clock, but o' course Bishop
didn't know that and showed up prompt at ten bells, before I was
half-way through the comical section. I had to go to the door because
the Missus don't never put on her shoes till she's positive the family
on the first floor is all awake, and Bessie was baskin' in the kind o'
water that don't come in your lease at Wabash.
"Mr. Bishop, ain't it?" I says, lookin' him straight in the upper lip.
"How'd you know?" he says, smilin'.
"The girls told me to be expectin' a handsome man o' that name," I says.
"And they told me about the mustache."
"Wouldn't be much to tell," says Bishop.
"It's young yet," I says. "Come in and take a weight off your feet."
So he picked out the only chair we got that ain't upholstered with
flatirons and we set down and was tryin' to think o' somethin' more to
say when Bessie hollered to us from mid-channel.
"Is that Mr. Bishop?" she yelped.
"It's me, Miss Gorton," says Bishop.
"I'll be right out," says Bess.
"Take it easy," I says. "You mightn't catch cold, but they's no use
riskin' it."
So then I and Bishop knocked the street-car service and President Wilson
and give each other the double O. He wasn't what you could call ugly
lookin', but if you'd come out in print and say he was handsome, a good
lawyer'd have you at his mercy. His dimensions, what they was of them,
all run perpendicular. He didn't have no latitude. If his collar slipped
over his shoulders he could step out of it. If they hadn't been payin'
him all them millions for pitcher plays, he could of got a job in a wire
wheel. They wouldn't of been no difference in his photograph if you took
it with a X-ray or a camera. But he had hair and two eyes and a mouth
and all the rest of it, and his clo'es was certainly class. Why wouldn't
they be? He could pick out cloth that was thirty bucks a yard and get a
suit and overcoat for fifteen bucks. A umbrella cover would of made him
a year's pyjamas.
Well, I seen the Missus sneak from the kitchen to her room to don the
shoe leather, so I got right down to business.
"The girls tells me you're fond o' good music," I says.
"I love it," says Bishop.
"Do you ever take in the op'ra?" I ast him.
"I eat it up," he says.
"Have you been this year?" I says.
"Pretty near every night," says Bishop.
"I should think you'd be sick of it," says I.
"Oh, no," he says, "no more'n I get tired o' food."
"A man could easy get tired o' the same kind o' food," I says.
"But the op'ras is all different," says Bishop.
"Different languages, maybe," I says. "But they're all music and
singin'."
"Yes," says Bishop, "but the music and singin' in the different op'ras
is no more alike than lumbago and hives. They couldn't be nothin'
differenter, for instance, than _Faust_ and _Madame Buttermilk_."
"Unlest it was Scotch and chocolate soda," I says.
"They's good op'ras and bad op'ras," says Bishop.
"Which is the good ones?" I ast him.
"Oh," he says, "_Carmen_ and _La Bohemian Girl_ and _Ill Toreador_."
"_Carmen's_ a bear cat," I says. "If they was all as good as _Carmen_,
I'd go every night. But lots o' them is flivvers. They say they couldn't
nothin' be worse than this _Armour's Dee Tree Ree_."
"It is pretty bad," says Bishop. "I seen it a year ago."
Well, I'd just been readin' in the paper where it was bran'-new and
hadn't never been gave prev'ous to this season. So I thought I'd have a
little sport with Mr. Smartenstein.
"What's it about?" I says.
He stalled a w'ile.
"It ain't about much of anything," he says.
"It must be about somethin'," says I.
"They got it all balled up the night I seen it," says Bishop. "The
actors forgot their lines and a man couldn't make heads or tails of it."
"Did they sing in English?" I ast him.
"No; Latin," says Bishop.
"Can you understand Latin?" I says.
"Sure," says he. "I'd ought to. I studied it two years."
"What's the name of it mean in English?" I ast.
"You pronounce the Latin wrong," he says. "I can't parse it from how you
say it. If I seen it wrote out I could tell."
So I handed him the paper where they give the op'ra schedule.
"That's her," I says, pointin' to the one that was billed for Tuesday
night.
"Oh, yes," says Bishop. "Yes, that's the one."
"No question about that," says I. "But what does it mean?"
"I knowed you said it wrong," says Bishop. "The right pronouncement
would be: _L. Armour's Day Trey Ray_. No wonder I was puzzled."
"Now the puzzle's solved," I says. "What do them last three words mean?
Louie Armour's what?"
"It ain't nothin' to do with Armour," says Bishop. "The first word is
the Latin for love. And _Day_ means of God, and _Trey_ means three, and
_Ray_ means Kings."
"Oh," I says, "it's a poker game. The fella's just called and the other
fella shows down his hand and the first fella had a straight and thought
it wasn't no good. So he's su'prised to see what the other fella's got.
So he says: 'Well, for the love o' Mike, three kings!' Only he makes it
stronger. Is that the dope?"
"I don't think it's anything about poker," says Bishop.
"You'd ought to know," I says. "You seen it."
"But it was all jumbled up," says Bishop. "I couldn't get the plot."
"Do you suppose you could get it if you seen it again?" I says.
"I wouldn't set through it," he says. "It's no good."
Well, sir, I thought at the time that that little speech meant a savin'
of eight dollars, because if he didn't go along, us three could set
amongst the riff and raff. I dropped the subject right there and was
goin' to tell the girls about it when he'd went home. But the Missus
crabbed it a few minutes after her and Bess come in the room.
"Did you get your invitation?" says she to Bishop.
"What invitation?" he says.
"My husban' was goin' to ask you to go with us Tuesday night," she says.
"Grand op'ra."
"Bishop won't go," I says. "He's already saw the play and says it ain't
no good and he wouldn't feel like settin' through it again."
"Why, Mr. Bishop! That's a terrible disappointment," says the Missus.
"We was countin' on you," says Bessie, chokin' up.
"It's tough luck," I says, "but you can't expect things to break right
all the w'ile."
"Wouldn't you change your mind?" says the Missus.
"That's up to your husban'," says Bishop. "I didn't understand that I
was invited. I should certainly hate to break up a party, and if I'd
knew I was goin' to be ast I would of spoke different about the op'ra.
It's prob'ly a whole lot better than when I seen it. And, besides, I
surely would enjoy your company."
"You can enjoy ourn most any night for nothin'," I says. "But if you
don't enjoy the one down to the Auditorium, they's no use o' me payin'
five iron men to have you bored to death."
"You got me wrong," says Bishop. "The piece was gave by a bunch o'
supers the time I went. I'd like to see it with a real cast. They say
it's a whiz when it's acted right."
"There!" says the Missus. "That settles it. You can change the tickets
to-morrow."
So I was stopped and they wasn't no more to say, and after a w'ile we
had dinner and then I seen why Bishop was so skinny. 'Parently he hadn't
tasted fodder before for a couple o' mont's.
"It must keep you busy writin' them scenarios," I says. "No time to eat
or nothin'."
"Oh, I eat oncet in a w'ile even if I don't look it," he says. "I don't
often get a chance at food that's cooked like this. Your wife's some
dandy little cook!"
"It runs in the family, I guess," says Bessie. "You'd ought to taste my
cookin'."
"Maybe he will some day," says the Missus, and then her and Bessie
pretended like they'd made a break and was embarrassed.
So when he was through I says:
"Leave Bess take Bishop out in the kitchen and show him how she can wash
dishes."
"Nothin' doin'," says the Wife. "I'm goin' to stack them and then I and
you's got to hurry and keep our date."
"What date?" I says.
"Over to Hatch's," says the Missus. "You hadn't forgotten, had you?"
"I hadn't forgot that the Hatches was in Benton Harbor," I says.
"Yes," says the Frau, winkin' at me, "but I promised Mrs. Hatch I'd run
over there and see that everything was O. K."
So I wasn't even allowed to set down and smoke, but had to help unload
the table and then go out in the cold. And it was rotten weather and
Sunday and nothin' but water, water everywhere.
"What's the idear?" I ast the Missus when we was out.
"Can't you see nothin'?" she says. "I want to give Bess a chance."
"Chance to what?" I says.
"A chance to talk to him," says the Wife.
"Oh!" says I. "I thought you wanted him to get stuck on her."
"What do you think of him?" says she. "Wouldn't he fit fine in the
family?"
"He'd fit in a flute," I says. "He's the skinniest thing I ever seen. It
seems like a shame to pay five dollars for a seat for him when him and
Bessie could sit in the same seat without contact."
"He is slender," says the Missus. "Prob'ly they been starvin' him where
he boards at."
"I bet they wouldn't starve me on ten thousand a year," I says. "But
maybe they don't know he's at the table or think he's just one o' the
macaroni."
"It's all right for you to make jokes about him," says she, "but if you
had his brains we'd be better off."
"If I had his brains," I says, "he'd go up like a balloon. If he lost an
ounce, gravity wouldn't have no effect on him."
"You don't have to bulge out to be a man," says the Missus. "He's smart
and he's rich and he's a swell dresser and I don't think we could find a
better match for Bess."
"Match just describes him," says I.
"You're too cute to live," says the Wife. "But no matter what you say,
him and Bess is goin' to hit it off. They're just suited to each other.
They're a ideal pair."
"You win that argument," I says. "They're a pair all right, and they'd
make a great hand if you was playin' deuces wild."
Well, we walked round till our feet was froze and then we went home, and
Bishop says he would have to go, but the Missus ast him to stay to
supper, and when he made the remark about havin' to go, he was referrin'
to one o'clock the next mornin'. And right after supper I was gave the
choice o' takin' another walk or hittin' the hay.
"Why don't we play cards?" I says.
"It's Sunday," says the Missus.
"Has the mayor stopped that, too?" I says.
But she winked at me again, the old flirt, so I stuck round the kitchen
till it was pretty near time to wipe the dishes, and then I went to bed.
Monday noon I chased over to the Auditorium and they was only about
eighty in line ahead o' me, and I was hopin' the house would be sold out
for a week before I got up to the window. While I was markin' time I
looked at the pitchers o' the different actors, hung up on the posts to
advertise some kind o' hair tonic. I wisht I had Bishop along to tell me
what the different names meant in English. I suppose most o' them meant
Goatee or Spinach or Brush or Hedge or Thicket or somethin'. Then they
was the girls' pitchers, too; Genevieve Farr'r that died in the
Stockyards scene in _Carmen_, and Fanny Alda that took the part o' the
Michaels girl from Janesville, and Mary Gardner, and Louise Edviney that
was goin' to warble for us, and a lot more of all ages and one size.
Finally I got up to the ticket agent's cage and then I didn't only have
to wait till the three women behind me done their shoppin', and then I
hauled out my two tickets and ast the agent what would he give me for
them.
"Do you want to exchange them?" he says.
"I did," says I, "but I heard you was sold out for to-morrow night."
"Oh, no," he says "we got plenty o' seats."
"But nothin' down-stairs, is they?" I says.
"Yes," he says "anywheres you want."
"Well," I says, "if you're sure you can spare them I want four in the
place o' these two."
"Here's four nice ones in the seventh row," says he. "It'll be ten
dollars more."
"I ain't partic'lar to have them nice," I says.
"It don't make no difference," says he. "The whole down-stairs is five a
wallop."
"Yes," I says, "but one o' the four that's goin' is a little skinny
fella and another's a refuge from Wabash."
"I don't care if they're all escapades from Milford Junction," he says.
"We ain't runnin' no Hoosier Welfare League."
"You're smart, ain't you?" I says.
"I got to be," says the agent.
"But if you was a little smarter you'd be this side o' the cage instead
o' that side," says I.
"Do you want these tickets or don't you?" he says.
So I seen he didn't care for no more verbal collisions with me, so I
give him the two tickets and a bonus o' ten bucks and he give me back
four pasteboards and throwed in a envelope free for nothin'.
I passed up lunch Tuesday because I wanted to get home early and have
plenty o' time to dress. That was the idear and it worked out every bit
as successful as the Peace Ship. In the first place, I couldn't get in
my room because that's where the Missus and Bess was makin' up. In the
second place, I didn't need to of allowed any time for supper because
there wasn't none. The Wife said her and Bessie'd been so busy with
their clo'es that they'd forgot a little thing like supper.
"But I didn't have no lunch," I says.
"That ain't my fault," says the Missus. "Besides, we can all go
somewheres and eat after the show."
"On who?" I says.
"You're givin' the party," says she.
"The invitations didn't contain no clause about the inner man," says I.
"Furthermore, if I had the ten dollars back that I spent to-day for
tickets, I'd have eleven dollars altogether."
"Well," says the Missus, "maybe Mr. Bishop will have the hunch."
"He will if his hearin' 's good," says I.
Bishop showed up at six-thirty, lookin' mighty cute in his waiter
uniform. After he'd came, it didn't take Bess long to finish her toilet.
I'd like to fell over when I seen her. Some doll she was, too, in a
fifty-meg evenin' dress marked down to thirty-seven. I know, because I
had helped pick it out for the Missus.
"My, you look sweet!" says Bishop. "That's a beautiful gown."
"It's my favoright," says Bessie.
"It don't take a person long to get attached to a pretty dress," I says.
The Missus hollered for me to come in and help her.
"I don't need no help," she says, "but I didn't want you givin' no
secrets away."
"What are you goin' to wear?" says I.
"Bess had one that just fits me," she says. "She's loanin' it to me."
"Her middle name's Generous," I says.
"Don't be sarcastical," says the Missus. "I want sis to look her best
this oncet."
"And I suppose it don't make no difference how you look," says I, "as
long as you only got me to please. If Bishop's friends sees him with
Bessie they'll say: 'My! he's copped out a big-leaguer.' But if I run
into any o' my pals they'll think I married the hired girl."
"You should worry," says the Missus.
"And besides that," I says, "if you succeed in tyin' Bishop up to a
long-term lease he's bound to see that there dress on you some time and
then what'll he think?"
"Bess can keep the gown," says the Missus. "I'll make her give me one of
her'n for it."
"With your tradin' ability," I says, "you'd ought to be the Cincinnati
Reds' manager. But if you do give the dress to her," I says, "warn her
not to wear it in Wabash--except when the marshal's over on the other
street."
Well, we was ready in a few minutes, because I'm gettin' used to the
soup and fish, and everything went on easy owin' to my vacuum, and I was
too weak to shave; and the Missus didn't have no trouble with Bessie's
creation, which was built like the Cottage Grove cars, enter at front.
"I don't think I'm so bad," says the Missus, lookin' in the glass.
"You'd be just right," I says, "if we was goin' to the annual meetin' o'
the Woman's Guild."
I and Bishop had a race gettin' on the street-car. I was first and he
won.
"I just got paid to-day," he says, "and I didn't have time to get
change."
They wasn't only one seat. Bess took it first and then offered it to the
Missus.
"I'll be mad at you if you don't take it," says Bess.
But the wife remained standin' and Bessie by a great effort kept her
temper.
Goin' into the theayter we passed a fella that was sellin' liberettos.
"I bet this guy's got lots o' change," I says.
"Them things is for people that ain't never saw no op'ra," says Bishop.
"I'm goin' to have one," I says.
"Don't buy none for me," says Bishop.
"You just spoke in time," I says.