II

It was a Friday evenin' about three weeks ago when I come home and found

the Wife quaverin' with excitement.

"Who do you think called up?" she ast me.

"I got no idear," I says.

"Guess!" says she.

So I had to guess.

"Josephus Daniels," I says. "Or Henry Ford. Or maybe it was that guy

with the scar on his lip that you thought was smilin' at you the other

day."

"You couldn't never guess," she says. "It was Mrs. Messenger."

"Which one?" I ast her. "You can't mean Mrs. A. D. T. Messenger."

"If you're so cute I won't tell you nothin' about it," says she.

"Don't make no rash threats," I says. "You're goin' to tell me some time

and they's no use makin' yourself sick by tryin' to hold it in."

"You know very well what Mrs. Messenger I mean," she says. "It was Mrs.

Robert Messenger that's husband owns this buildin' and the one at the

corner, where they live at."

"Haven't you paid the rent?" I says.

"Do you think a woman like Mrs. Messenger would be buttin' into her

husband's business?" says the Missus.

"I don't know what kind of a woman Mrs. Messenger is," I says. "But if I

owned these here apartments and somebody fell behind in their rent, I

wouldn't be surprised to see the owner's wife goin' right over to their

flat and takin' it out o' their trousers pocket."

"Well," says the Wife, "we don't owe them no rent and that wasn't what

she called up about. It wasn't no business call."

"Go ahead and spill it," I says. "My heart's weak."

"Well," she says, "I was just gettin' through with the lunch dishes and

the phone rang."

"I bet you wondered who it was," says I.

"I thought it was Mrs. Hatch or somebody," says the Wife. "So I run to

the phone and it was Mrs. Messenger. So the first thing she says was to

explain who she was--just like I didn't know. And the next thing she ast

was did I play bridge."

"And what did you tell her?" says I.

"What do you think I'd tell her?" says the Missus. "I told her yes."

"Wasn't you triflin' a little with the truth?" I ast her.

"Certainly not!" she says. "Haven't I played twice over to Hatches'? So

then she ast me if my husband played bridge, too. And I told her yes, he

did."

"What was the idear?" I says. "You know I didn't never play it in my

life."

"I don't know no such a thing," she says. "For all as I know, you may

play all day down to the office."

"No," I says; "we spend all our time down there playin' post-office with

the scrubwomen."

"Well, anyway, I told her you did," says the Missus. "Don't you see they

wasn't nothin' else I could tell her, because if I told her you didn't,

that would of ended it."

"Ended what?" I says.

"We wouldn't of been ast to the party," says the Missus.

"Who told you they was goin' to be a party?" I says.

"I don't have to be told everything," says the Missus. "I got brains

enough to know that Mrs. Messenger ain't callin' me up and astin' me do

we play bridge just because she's got a headache or feels lonesome or

somethin'. But it ain't only one party after all, and that's the best

part of it. She ast us if we'd care to join the club."

"What club?" says I.

"Mrs. Messenger's club, the San Susie Club," says the Missus. "You've

heard me speak about it a hundred times, and it's been mentioned in the

papers once or twice, too--once, anyway, when the members give away them

Christmas dinners last year."

"We can get into the papers," I says, "without givin' away no Christmas

dinners."

"Who wants to get into the papers?" says the Wife. "I don't care nothin'

about that."

"No," I says; "I suppose if a reporter come out here and ast for your

pitcher to stick in the society columns, you'd pick up the carvin' knife

and run him ragged."

"I'd be polite to him, at least," she says.

"Yes," says I; "it wouldn't pay to treat him rude; it'd even be

justifiable to lock him in w'ile you was lookin' for the pitcher."

"If you'll kindly leave me talk you may find out what I got to say," she

says. "I've told you about this club, but I don't suppose you ever paid

any attention. It's a club that's made up from people that just lives in

this block, twenty o' them altogether; and all but one couple either

lives in this buildin' or in the buildin' the Messengers lives in. And

they're all nice people, people with real class to them; not no tramps

like most o' the ones we been runnin' round with. One o' them's Mr. and

Mrs. Arthur Collins that used to live on Sheridan Road and still goes

over to parties at some o' the most exclusive homes on the North Side.

And they don't have nobody in the club that isn't congenial with each

other, but all just a nice crowd o' real people that gets together once

a week at one o' the members' houses and have a good time."

"How did these pillows o' Society happen to light on to us?" I ast her.

"Well," she says, "it seems like the Baileys, who belonged to the club,

went to California last week to spend the winter. And they had to have a

couple to take their place. And Mrs. Messenger says they wouldn't take

nobody that didn't live in our block, and her and her husband looked

over the list and we was the ones they picked out."

"Probably," I says, "that's because we was the only eligibles that can

go out nights on account o' not havin' no children."

"The Pearsons ain't ast," she says, "and they ain't got no children."

"Well," I says, "what's the dues?"

"They ain't no dues," says the Missus. "But once in a w'ile, instead o'

playin' bridge, everybody puts in two dollars apiece and have a theater

party. But the regular program is for an evenin' o' bridge every Tuesday

night, at different members' houses, somebody different actin' as hosts

every week. And each couple puts up two dollars, makin' ten dollars for

a gent's prize and ten dollars for a lady's. And the prizes is picked

out by the lady that happens to be the hostess."

"That's a swell proposition for me," I says. "In the first place they

wouldn't be a chance in the world for me to win a prize, because I don't

know nothin' about the game. And, in the second place, suppose I had a

whole lot o' luck and did win the prize, and come to find out it was a

silver mustache cup that I wouldn't have no more use for than another

Adam's apple! If they paid in cash they might be somethin' to it."

"If you win a prize you can sell it, can't you?" says the Missus.

"Besides, the prizes don't count. It's gettin' in with the right kind o'

people that makes the difference."

"Another thing," I says: "When it come our turn to have the party, where

would we stick 'em all? We'd have to spread a sheet over the bathtub for

one table, and have one couple set on the edges and the other couple

toss up for the washbasin and the clothes-hamper. And another two

couple'd have to kneel round the bed, and another bunch could stand up

round the bureau. That'd leave the dinin'-room table for the fourth set;

and for a special treat the remainin' four could play in the parlor."

"We could hire chairs and tables," says the Missus. "We're goin' to have

to some time, anyway, when you or I die."

"You don't need to hire no tables for my funeral," I says. "If the

pallbearers or the quartet insists on shootin' craps they can use the

kitchen floor; or if they want beer and sandwiches you can slip 'em the

money to go down to the corner."

"They's no use worryin' about our end of it yet," says the Wife. "We'll

be new members and they won't expect us to give no party till everybody

else has had their turn."

"I only got one objection left," I says. "How am I goin' to get by at a

bridge party when I haven't no idear how many cards to deal?"

"I guess you can learn if I learnt," she says. "You're always talkin'

about what a swell card player you are. And besides, you've played

w'ist, and they ain't hardly any difference."

"And the next party is next Tuesday night?" I says.

"Yes," says the Missus, "at Mrs. Garrett's, the best player in the club,

and one o' the smartest women in Chicago, Mrs. Messenger says. She lives

in the same buildin' with the Messengers. And they's dinner first and

then we play bridge all evenin'."

"And maybe," I says, "before the evenin's over, I'll find out what's

trumps."

"You'll know all about the game before that," she says. "Right after

supper we'll get out the cards and I'll show you."

So right after supper she got out the cards and begun to show me. But

about all as I learnt was one thing, and that was that if I died without

no insurance, the Missus would stand a better show o' supportin' herself

by umpirin' baseball in the National League than by teachin' in a

bridge-w'ist university. She knew everything except how much the

different suits counted, and how many points was in a game, and what

honors meant, and who done the first biddin', and how much to bid on

what.

After about an hour of it I says:

"I can see you got this thing mastered, but you're like a whole lot of

other people that knows somethin' perfect themselves but can't learn it

to nobody else."

"No," she says; "I got to admit that I don't know as much as I thought I

did. I didn't have no trouble when I was playin' with Mrs. Hatch and

Mrs. Pearson and Mrs. Kramer; but it seems like I forgot all they learnt

me."

"It's a crime," I says, "that we should have to pass up this chance to

get in right just because we can't play a fool game o' cards. Why don't

you call up Mrs. Messenger and suggest that the San Susies switches to

pedro or five hundred or rummy, or somethin' that you don't need to take

no college course in?"

"You're full o' brilliant idears," says the Missus. "They's only just

the one game that Society plays, and that's bridge. Them other games is

jokes."

"I've noticed you always treated 'em that way," I says. "But they wasn't

so funny to me when it come time to settle."

"I'll tell you what we'll do," says the Missus: "We'll call up Mr. and

Mrs. Hatch and tell 'em to come over here to-morrow night and give us a

lesson."

"That'd be sweet," I says, "askin' them to learn us a game so as we

could join a club that's right here in their neighborhood, but they

ain't even been ast to join it!"

"Why, you rummy!" she says. "We don't have to tell 'em why we want to

learn. We'll just say that my two attempts over to their house has got

me interested and I and you want to master the game so as we can spend

many pleasant evenin's with them; because Mrs. Hatch has told me a

hundred times that her and her husband would rather play bridge than

eat."

So she called up Mrs. Hatch and sprung it on her; but it seemed like the

Hatches had an engagement for Saturday night, but would be tickled to

death to come over Monday evenin' and give us a work-out. After that was

fixed we both felt kind of ashamed of ourselves, deceivin' people that

was supposed to be our best friends.

"But, anyway," the Missus says, "the Hatches wouldn't never fit in with

that crowd. Jim always looks like he'd dressed on the elevated and Mrs.

Hatch can't talk about nothin' only shiropody."

On the Saturday I tried to slip one over by buyin' a book called

_Auction Bridge_, and I read it all the way home from town and then left

it on the car. It was a great book for a man that had learnt the

rudderments and wanted to find out how to play the game right. But for

me to try and get somethin' out of it was just like as though some kid'd

learn the baseball guide by heart in kindeygarden and then ask Hugh

Jennin's for the job in center-field. I did find out one thing from it

though: it says that in every deal one o' the players was a dummy and

just laid his cards down and left somebody else play 'em. So when I got

home I says:

"We won't need no help from Jim Hatch and his wife. We can just be

dummies all the evenin' and they won't nobody know if we're ignorant or

not."

"That's impossible, to be dummy all the time," says the Missus.

"Not for me," I says. "I know it'll be tough for you, but you can chew a

lot o' gum and you won't mind it so much."

"You don't understand," she says. "The dummy is the pardner o' the party

that gets the bid. Suppose one o' the people that was playin' against

you got the bid; then the other one'd be dummy and you'd have to play

your hand."

"But I don't need to leave 'em have the bid," I says. "I can take it

away from 'em."

"And if you take it away from 'em," she says, "then you got the bid

yourself, and your pardner's dummy, not you."

Well, the Hatches breezed in Monday night and Mrs. Hatch remarked how

tickled she was that we was goin' to learn, and what good times we

four'd have playin' together. And the Missus and I pretended like we

shared her raptures.

"Ain't you never played at all?" she ast me; and I told her no.

"The first thing," she says, "is how much the different suits counts;

and then they's the bids. And you got to pay attention to the

conventions."

"I'm through with 'em forever," I says, "since they turned down

Roosevelt."

Well, we started in and Hatch and the Missus played Mrs. Hatch and I. We

kept at it till pretty near midnight, with three or four intermissions

so as Hatch could relieve the strain on the ice-box. My w'ist education

kept me from bein' much of a flivver when it come to playin' the cards;

but, I don't care how bright a guy is, you can't learn everything about

biddin' in one evenin', and you can't remember half what you learnt. I

don't know what the score was when we got through, but the Hatches done

most o' the execution and held most o' the cards, which is their regular

habit.

"You'll get along all right," says Mrs. Hatch when they was ready to go.

"But, o' course, you can't expect to master a game like bridge in a few

hours. You want to keep at it."

"We're goin' to," says the Missus.

"Maybe it'd be a good idear," says Mrs. Hatch, "to play again soon

before you forget what we learnt you. Why don't you come over to our

house for another session to-morrow night?"

"Let's see; to-morrow night?" says the Missus, stallin'. "Why, no, we

can't. We got an engagement."

So Mrs. Hatch stood there like she was expectin' to hear what it was.

"We're goin' to a party," says the Wife.

"Oh, tell me about it!" says Mrs. Hatch.

"Well," says the Missus, "it ain't really a party; it's just a kind of a

party; some old friends that's visitin' in town."

"Maybe they'll play bridge with you," says Mrs. Hatch.

"Oh, no," says the Missus, blushin'. "It'll probably be rummy or pedro;

or maybe we'll just go to the pitchers."

"Why don't you go over to the Acme?" says Mrs. Hatch. "They got Chaplin

in _The Street Sweeper_. We're goin', and we could meet you and all go

together."

"N-no," says the Wife. "You see, one of our friends has just lost his

wife and I know he wouldn't feel like goin' to see somethin' funny."

"He's already laughed himself sick," I says.

Well, we wouldn't make no date with 'em and they finally blew with the

understandin' that we was to go to their house and play some night soon.

When they'd went the Missus says:

"I feel like a criminal, deceivin' 'em like that. But I just couldn't

tell 'em the truth. Bertha Hatch is the most jealous thing in the world

and it would just about kill her to know that we was in on somethin'

good without she and Jim."

"If you hadn't ast 'em over," I says, "we'd of been just as well off and

you wouldn't of had to make a perjure out o' yourself."

"What do you mean, we'd of been just as well off?" she says. "They done

what we expected of 'em, learnt us the game."

"Yes," I says; "and you could take all I remember o' the lesson and feed

it to a gnat and he'd say: 'Hurry up with the soup course!'"