When it comes to makin' matches I hand it to the women. When it comes to
breakin' 'em leave it to the handsomer sex.
The thirteenth o' June didn't light on a Friday, but old Tuesday come
through in the pinch with just as good results. Dear little
Sister-in-law Bess blew in on the afternoon train from Wabash. She says
she was makin' us a surprise visit. The surprise affected me a good deal
like the one that was pulled on Napoleon at Waterloo, Ia.
"How long are you goin' to light up our home?" I ast her at the supper
table.
"I haven't made up my mind," says she.
"That's all you've missed, then," I says.
"Don't mind him!" says my Missus. "He's just a tease. You look grand and
we're both tickled to death to have you here. You may stay with us all
summer."
"No question about that," I says. "Not only may, but li'ble to."
"If I do," says Bess, "it'll be on my sister's account, not yourn."
"But I'm the baby that settles your sister's account," I says; "and it
was some account after you left us last winter. With your visit and our
cute little trip to Palm Beach, I'm not what you'd call cramped for
pocket space."
"I guess I can pay my board," says Bess.
"I guess you won't!" says the Wife.
"The second guess is always better," says I.
"As for you entertainin' me, I don't expect nothin' like that," says
Bess.
"If you was lookin' for a quiet time," I says, "you made a big mistake
by leavin' Wabash."
"And I'm not lookin' for no quiet time, neither," Bess says right back
at me.
"Well," says I, "about the cheapest noisy time I can recommend is to go
over and set under the elevated."
"Maybe Bess has somethin' up in her sleeve," the Missus says, smilin'.
"You ain't the only man in Chicago."
"I'm the only one she knows," says I, "outside o' that millionaire
scenario writer that had us all in misery last winter. And I wouldn't
say he was over-ardent after he'd knew her a week."
Then the Wife winked at me to close up and I didn't get the dope till we
was alone together.
"They correspond," she told me.
"Absolutely," says I.
"I mean they been writin' letters to each other," says the Missus.
"Who's been buyin' Bishop's stamps?" I ast her.
"I guess a man can buy his own stamps when he gets ten thousand a year,"
says she. "Anyway, the reason Bess is here is to see him."
"Is it illegal for him to go to Wabash and see her?" I says.
"He's too busy to go to Wabash," the Wife says.
"I don't see how a man could be too busy for that," says I.
"She phoned him this noon," says the Missus. "He couldn't come over here
to-night, but to-morrow he's goin' to take her to the ball game."
"Where all the rest o' the busy guys hangs out," I says. "Aren't the
White Sox havin' enough bad luck without him?"
That reminded me that I'd came home before the final extras was out; so
I put on my hat and went over to Tim's to look at the score-board. It
took me till one A. M. to memorize the batteries and everything. The
Wife was still awake yet when I got home and I had enough courage to
resume hostilities.
"If what you told me about Bishop and Bess is true," I says, "I guess
I'll pack up and go fishin' for the rest o' the summer."
"And leave me to starve, I suppose!" says she.
"Bishop'll take care of the both o' you," I says. "If he don't I'll send
you home a couple o' carp."
"If you go and leave me it's the last time!" she says. "And it shows you
don't care nothin' about me."
"I care about you, all right," I says; "but not enough to be drove crazy
in my own house."
"They's nothin' for you to go crazy about," she says. "If Bess and Mr.
Bishop wants to tie up leave 'em alone and forget about 'em."
"I'd like nothin' better," I says; "but you know they'll give us no
chance to forget about 'em."
"Why not?" she ast me.
"Because they'd starve to death without us," I says.
"Starve to death!" she says. "On ten thousand a year!"
"Now here!" I says. "Who told you he got that trifle?"
"He did," says the Wife.
"And how do you know he wasn't overestimatin'?" I ast her.
"You mean how do I know he wasn't lyin'?" she says.
"Yes," says I.
"Because he's a gentleman," she says.
"And he told you that, too?" I ast.
"No," she says. "I could tell that by lookin' at him."
"All right, Clara Voyant!" I says. "And maybe you can tell by lookin' at
me how much money he borrowed off'n me and never give back."
"When? How much?" she says.
"One at a time, please," says I. "The amount o' the cash transaction was
a twenty-dollar gold certificate. And the time he shook me down was the
evenin' he took us to hear _Ada_, and was supposed to be payin' for it."
"I can't believe it," says the Missus.
"All right," I says. "When he brings Bessie home from the ball game
to-morrow I'll put it up to him right in front o' you."
"No! You mustn't do that!" she says. "I won't have him insulted."
"You would have him insulted if I knowed how to go about it," I says.
"You stayed over to Tim's too long," says the Wife.
"Yes," says I, "and I made arrangements to stay over there every time
Bishop comes here."
"Suit yourself," she says, and pretended like she was asleep.
Well, the next mornin' I got to thinkin' over what I'd said and
wonderin' if I'd went too strong. But I couldn't see where. This bird
was a dude that had got acquainted with Bessie on the train when she was
on her way here to visit us last winter. He'd infested the house all the
while she was with us. He'd gave us that ten-thousand-dollar yarn and
told us he made it by writin' movin'-pitcher plays, but we never seen
none o' them advertised and never run into anybody that had heard of
him.
The Missus had picked him out for Bess the minute she seen him. Bessie
herself had fell for him strong. To keep 'em both from droppin' cyanide
in my gruel, I'd took him along with us to see _The Love o' Three
Kings_, besides buyin' his groceries and provisions for pretty near a
week and standin' for the upkeep on the davenport where him and Bess
held hands. Finally, after he'd went six days without submittin' even
circumstantial evidence that he'd ever had a dime, I bullied him into
sayin' he'd give us a party.
Then they'd been an argument over where he'd take us. He'd suggested a
vaudeville show, but I jumped on that with both feet. Bessie held out
for a play, but I told her they wasn't none that I'd leave a young
unmarried sister-in-law o' mine go to.
"Oh," Bess had said, "they must be some that's perfectly genteel."
"Yes," I told her, "there is some; but they're not worth seein'."
So they'd ast what was left and I'd mentioned grand opera.
"They're worse than plays, the most o' them," was the Wife's cut-in.
"But all the risky parts is sang in Latin and Greek," I'd said.
Well, Bishop put up a great fight, but I wouldn't break ground, and
finally he says he would take us to opera if he could get tickets.
"I'm down-town every day," I'd told him. "I'll have 'em reserved for
you."
But no; he wouldn't see me put to all that trouble for the world; he'd
do the buyin' himself.
So _Ada_ was what he took us to on a Sunday night, when the seats was
cut to half price. And when I and him went out between acts to try the
limes he catched me with my guard down and frisked the twenty.
Now Bess had tipped off the Wife that her and Bishop was practically
engaged, but the night after _Ada_ was the last night of her visit and
Bishop hadn't never came round. So Bessie'd cried all night and tried to
get him by phone before she left next day; but neither o' them two acts
done her any good. It looked like he was all through. On the way to the
train Bess and the Missus had ruined three or four handkerchiefs and
called the bird every low-down flirt they could think of. I didn't say a
word; nor did I perfume my linen with brine.
* * * * *
Here, though, was Bess back in town and Old Man Short makin' up to her
again. And they'd been correspondin'. The second time was li'ble to
take, unless outside brains come to the rescue.
If I'd thought for a minute that they'd leave us out of it and go away
somewhere by themself and live--the North Side, or one o' the suburbs,
or Wabash--I wouldn't of cared how many times they married each other.
But I had him spotted for a loafer that couldn't earn a livin', and I
knowed what the maritile nuptials between Bess and he meant--it meant
that I and the Missus would have all the pleasures o' conductin' a
family hotel without the pain o' makin' out receipts.
Now I always wanted a boy and a girl, but I wanted 'em to be kind o'
youngish when I got 'em. I never craved addin' a married couple to my
family--not even if they was crazy about rummy and paid all their bills.
And when it come to Bishop and Bess, well, they was just as welcome to
my home as Villa and all the little Villains.
It wasn't just Bishop, with his quaint habit o' never havin' car fare.
Bess, in her way, was as much of a liability. You couldn't look at her
without a slight relapse. She had two complexions--A.M. and P.M. The
P.M. wasn't so bad, but she could of put the other in her vanity box for
a mirror. Her nose curved a little away from the batsman and wasn't no
wider than a Julienne potato, and yet it had to draw in to get between
her eyes. Her teeth was real pretty and she always kept her lips ajar.
But the baseball reporters named Matty's favorite delivery after her
chin, and from there down the curves was taboo.
Where she made a hit with Bishop was laughin' at everything he
pulled--that is, he thought she was laughin'. The fact was that she was
snatchin' the chance to show more o' them teeth. They wasn't no use
showin' 'em to me; so I didn't get laughs from her on my stuff, only
when he or some other stranger was round. And if my stuff wasn't funnier
than Bishop's I'll lay down my life for Austria.
As a general rule, I don't think a man is justified in interferin' with
other people's hymeneal intentions, but it's different when the said
intentions is goin' to make your own home a hell.
It was up to me to institute proceedin's that would check the flight o'
these two cooin' doves before their wings took 'em to Crown Point in a
yellow flivver.
And I seen my duty all the more clear when the pair come home from the
ball game the day after Bessie's arrival, and not only told me that the
White Sox got another trimmin' but laughed when they said it.
"Well, Bishop," I says when we set down to supper, "how many six-reelers
are you turnin' out a day?"
"About one every two weeks is the limit," says Bishop.
"I'll bet it is," I says. "And who are you workin' for now?"
"The Western Film Corporation," he says. "But I'm goin' to quit 'em the
first o' the month."
"What for?" I ast him.
"Better offer from the Criterion," he says.
"Better'n ten thousand a year?" says I.
"Sure!" he says.
"Twenty dollars better?" I says.
He blushed and the Wife sunk my shin with a patent-leather torpedo. Then
Bishop says:
"The raise I'm gettin' would make twenty dollars look sick."
"If you'd give it to me," I says, "I'd try and nurse it back to health."
After supper the Missus called me out in the kitchen to bawl me out.
"It's rough stuff to embarrass a guest," she says.
"He's always embarrassed," says I. "But you admit now, don't you, that I
was tellin' the truth about him touchin' me?"
"Yes," she says.
"Well," says I, "if he's so soiled with money, why don't he pay a little
puny debt?"
"He's probably forgot it," says she.
"Did he look like he'd forgot it?" I ast her. And she had no come-back.
But when my Missus can overlook a guy stingin' me for legal tender, it
means he's in pretty strong with her. And I couldn't count on no help
from her, even if Bishop was a murderer, so long as Bess wanted him.
The next mornin', just to amuse myself, I called up the Criterion people
and ast them if they was goin' to hire a scenario writer name Elmer
Bishop.
"Never heard of him," was what they told me.
So I called up the Western.
"Elmer Bishop?" they says. "He ain't no scenario writer. He's what we
call an extra. He plays small parts sometimes."
"And what pay do them extras drag down?" I ast.
"Five dollars a day, but nothin' when they don't work," was the
thrillin' response.
My first idea was to slip this dope to the Wife and Bess both. But
what'd be the use? They wouldn't believe it even if they called up and
found out for themself; and if they did believe it, Bessie'd say a man's
pay didn't make no difference where true love was concerned, and the
Missus would take her part, and they'd cry a little, and wind up by
sendin' for Bishop and a minister to make sure o' the ceremony comin'
off before Bishop lost his five-dollar job and croaked himself.
Then I thought o' forbiddin' him the hospitality o' my abode. But that'd
be just as useless. They'd meet somewheres else, and if I threatened to
lock Bess out, the Wife'd come back with a counter-proposition to not
give me no more stewed beets or banana souffles. Besides that,
strong-arm methods don't never kill sweet love, but act just the
opposite and make the infected parties more set on gettin' each other.
This here case was somethin' delicate, and if a man didn't handle it
exactly right you wouldn't never get over bein' sorry.
So, instead o' me quarrelin' with the Wife and Bess, and raisin' a fuss
at Bishop spendin' eight evenin's a week with us, I kept my clam closed
and tried to be pleasant, even when I'd win a hand o' rummy and see this
guy carelessly lose a few of his remainin' face cards under the table.
We had an awful spell o' heat in July and it wasn't no fun playin' cards
or goin' to pitcher shows, or nothin'. Saturday afternoons and Sundays,
I and the Missus would go over to the lake and splash. Bess only went
with us a couple o' times; that was because she couldn't get Bishop to
come along. He'd always say he was busy, or he had a cold and was afraid
o' makin' it worse. So far as I was concerned, I managed to enjoy my
baths just as much with them two stayin' away. The sight o' Bessie in a
bathin' suit crabbed the exhilaratin' effects o' the swim. When she
stood up in the water the minnows must of thought two people was
still-fishin'.
It was one night at supper, after Bessie'd been with us about a month,
when the idear come to me. Bishop was there, and I'd been lookin' at he
and Bess, and wonderin' what they'd seen in each other. The Missus ast
'em if they was goin' out some place.
"No," says Bessie. "It's too hot and they ain't no place to go."
"They's lots o' places to go," says the Wife. "For one thing, they're
havin' grand opera out to Ravinia Park."
"I wouldn't give a nickel to see a grand opera," says Bess, "unless it
was _Ada_, that Elmer took us to last winter."
So they went on talkin' about somethin' else. I don't know what, because
the minute she mentioned _Ada_ I was all set.
I guess maybe I'd better tell you a little about this here opera, so's
you'll see how it helped me out. A fella named Gus Verdi wrote it, and
the scenes is laid along the Illinois Central, round Memphis and Cairo.
Ada's a big wench, with a pretty voice, and she's the hired girl in the
mayor's family. The mayor's daughter gets stuck on a fat little tenor
that you can't pronounce and that should of had a lawn mower ran over
his chin. The tenor likes the colored girl better than the mayor's
daughter, and the mayor's daughter tries every way she can think of to
bust it up and grab off the tenor for herself; but nothin' doin'!
Finally the mayor has the tenor pinched for keepin' open after one
o'clock, and the law's pretty strict; so, instead o' just finin' him,
they lock him up in a safety-deposit vault. Well, the wench is down in
the vault, too, dustin' off the papers and cleanin' the silver, and they
don't know she's there; so the two o' them's locked up together and
can't get out. And when they can't get away and haven't got nobody else
to look at or talk to, they get so's they hate each other; and finally
they can't stand it no longer and they both die. They's pretty music in
it, but if old Gus had of seen the men that was goin' to be in the show
he'd of laid the scenes in Beardstown instead o' Memphis.
Well, do you get the idear? If the mayor's daughter had of been smart,
instead o' tryin' to keep the tenor and Ada from bein' with each other
she'd of locked 'em up together a long while ago, and, first thing you
know, they'd of been sick o' one another; and just before they died she
could of let 'em out and had the tenor for herself without no argument.
And the same thing would work with Bishop and Bess. In all the time o'
their mutual courtship they hadn't been together for more'n five or six
hours at a time, and never where one o' them couldn't make a quick duck
when they got tired. Make 'em stick round with each other for a day, or
for two days, without no chance to separate, and it was a cinch that the
alarm clock would break in on Love's Young Dream.
But, for some reason or other, I didn't have no safety-deposit vault and
they wasn't no room in the flat that they couldn't get out of by jumpin'
from the window.
How was I goin' to work it? I thought and thought; and figured and
figured; and it wasn't till after I'd went to bed that the solution
come.
A boat trip to St. Joe! I and the Missus and the two love birds. And I'd
see to it that the chaperons kept their distance and let Nature take its
course. We'd go over some Saturday afternoon and come back the next
night. That'd give 'em eight or nine hours Saturday and from twelve to
sixteen hours Sunday to get really acquainted with each other. And if
they was still on speakin' terms at the end o' that time I'd pass up the
case as incurable.
You see, I had it doped that Bishop was afraid o' water or else he
wouldn't of turned down all our swimmin' parties. I wouldn't leave him a
chance to duck out o' this because I wouldn't tell nobody where we was
goin'. It'd be a surprise trip. And they was a good chance that they'd
both be sick if it was the least bit rough, and that'd help a lot. I
thought of Milwaukee first, but picked St. Joe because it's dry. A man
might stand for Bess a whole day and more if he was a little blear-eyed
from Milwaukee's favorite food.
The trip would cost me some money, but it was an investment with a good
chance o' big returns. I'd of been willin' to take 'em to Palm Beach for
a month if that'd been the only way to save my home.
When Bishop blew in the next evenin' I pulled it on 'em.
"Bishop," I says, "a man that does as much brain work as you ought to
get more recreation."
"I guess I do work too hard," he says modestly.
"I should think," I says, "that you'd give yourself Saturday afternoons
and Sundays off."
"I do, in summer," he says.
"That's good," I says. "I was thinkin' about givin' a little party this
comin' week-end; and, o' course, I wanted you to be in on it."
The two girls got all excited.
"Party!" says the Missus. "What kind of a party?"
"Well," I says, "I was thinkin' about takin' you and Bishop and Bess out
o' town for a little trip."
"Where to?" ast the Wife.
"That's a secret," I says. "You won't know where we're goin' till we
start. All I'll tell you is that we'll be gone from Saturday afternoon
till Monday mornin'."
"Oh, how grand!" says Bessie. "And think how romantic it'll be, not
knowin' where we're headed!"
"I don't know if I can get away or not," says Bishop.
"I pay all expenses," says I.
"Oh, Elmer, you've just got to go!" says Bess.
"The trip's off if you don't," I says.
"If you don't say yes I'll never speak to you again," says Bessie.
For a minute I hoped he wouldn't say yes; but he did. Then I told 'em
that the start would be from our house at a quarter to one Saturday, and
to pack up their sporty clothes. The rest o' the evenin' was spent in
them tryin' to guess where we was goin'. It got 'em nothin', because I
wouldn't say aye, yes or no to none o' their guesses.
When I and the Missus was alone, she says:
"Well, what's the idear?"
"No idear at all," I says, "except that our honeymoon trip to Palm Beach
was a flivver and I feel like as if I ought to make up to you for it.
And besides that, Bessie's our guest and I ought to do somethin' nice
for she and her friend."
"I'd think you must of been drinkin' if I didn't know better," she says.
"You never do give me credit for nothin'," says I. "To tell the truth,
I'm kind of ashamed o' myself for the way I been actin' to'rd Bishop and
Bess; but I'm willin' to make amends before it's too late. If Bishop's
goin' to be one o' the family I and him should ought to be good
friends."
"That's the way I like to hear you talk," says the Wife.
"But remember," I says, "this trip ain't only for their benefit, but for
our'n too. And from the minute we start till we get home us two'll pal
round together just like we was alone. We don't want them buttin' in on
us and we don't want to be buttin' in on them."
"That suits me fine!" says she. "And now maybe you'll tell me where
we're goin'."
"You promise not to tell?" I ast her.
"Sure!" she says.
"Well," I says, "that's one promise you'll keep."
And I buried my good ear in the feathers.
* * * * *
At twenty minutes to two, Saturday afternoon, I landed my entire party
at the dock, foot o' Wabash Avenue.
"Goody!" says Bess. "We're goin' acrost the lake."
"If the boat stays up."
"I don't know if I ought to go or not," says Bishop. "I'd ought to be
where I can keep in touch with the Criterion people."
"They got a wireless aboard," I says.
"Yes," says Bishop; "but they wouldn't know where to reach me."
"You got time to phone 'em before we sail," says I.
"No, he hasn't," says Bessie. "He ain't goin' to take no chance o'
missin' this boat. He can send 'em a wireless after we start."
So that settled Bishop, and he had to walk up the gangplank with the
rest of us. He looked just as pleased as if they'd lost his laundry.
I checked the baggage and sent the three o' them up on deck, sayin' I'd
join 'em later. Then I ast a boy where the bar was.
"Right in there," he says, pointin'. "But you can't get nothin' till
we're three miles out."
So I went back to the gangplank and started off the boat. A man about
four years old, with an addin' machine in his hand, stopped me.
"Are you goin' to make the trip?" he ast me.
"What do you think I'm on here for--to borrow a match?" says I.
"Well," he says, "you can't get off."
"You're cross!" I says. "I bet your milk don't agree with you."