Gullible's Travels, Etc.

by Ring Lardner

  THREE KINGS AND A PAIR

  Accordin' to some authorities, a person, before they get married, shouldought to look up your opponent's family tree and find out what all herrelatives died of. But the way I got it figured out, if you're sure theydid die, the rest of it don't make no difference. In exceptionable casesit may be all right to take a girl that part of her family is stilllivin', but not under no circumstances if the part happens to be aunmarried sister named Bessie.

  We was expectin' her in about two weeks, but we got a card Saturdaymornin' which she says on it that she'd come right away if it was allthe same to us, because it was the dull season in Wabash society and shecould tear loose better at the present time than later on. Well, I guessthey ain't no time in the year when society in Wabash would collapse forshe not bein' there, but if she had to come at all, the sooner it wasover 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, butit seems like she brought her escort right along with her. It was a guynamed Bishop and she'd met him on the trip up. The news butcherintroduced them, I guess. He seen her safe to the house and she wasthere 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 couldmeet him."

  "They won't be no trouble about that," says the Missus. "He's comin' todinner 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 exceptMonday, 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'thave to answer it."

  "What do you mean?" says the Missus. "I guess if we go, Bess'll go withus."

  "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 visitorwe'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 cardgames."

  "I ain't goin' to force myself on to you," says Bessie. "You don't haveto 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 Idon'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 ourown."

  And it must of been goin' to be a dandy, because just speakin' about itmade 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'lyhave 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 andsplit 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 elsedon't ask him at all."

  "I won't ask him at all," I says. "It was a mistake for me to eversuggest it."

  "Yes," says Bessie, "but after makin' the suggestion it would be a meantrick 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 youjust went along with us."

  "All right, all right," I says. "Let's not argue no more. Every time Iopen my head it costs three dollars."

  "No such a thing," says the Missus. "The whole business won't only betwo dollars more than you figured on. The tickets you had for the two ofus would come to ten dollars, and with Bess and Mr. Bishop goin' it'sonly twelve, if you get balcony seats."

  "I wonder," says Bessie, "if Mr. Bishop wouldn't object to settin' inthe balcony."

  "Maybe he would," says the Missus.

  "Well," I says, "if he gets dizzy and falls over the railin' they'splenty of ushers to point out where he come from."

  "They ain't no danger of him gettin' dizzy," says Bessie. "The onlything is that he's prob'ly used to settin' in the high-priced seats andwould 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 nicea one."

  "You can't judge a mustache by seein' it oncet," I says. "It may be acrook at heart."

  "This ain't gettin' us nowheres," says the Missus. "They's still aquestion before the house."

  "It's up to Bess to give the answer," I says. "Bishop and his lip shieldare invited if they'll set in a three-dollar seat."

  "It's off, then," says Bessie, and beats it in the guest room and slamsthe door.

  "What's the matter with you?" says the Missus.

  "Nothin' at all," I says, "except that I ain't no millionaire scenariowriter. Twenty dollars is twenty dollars."

  "Yes," the Missus says, "but how many times have you lost more than thatplayin' cards and not thought nothin' of it?"

  "That's different," I says. "When I spend money in a card game it's morelike a investment. I got a chance to make somethin' by it."

  "And this would be a investment, too," says the Wife, "and a whole lotbetter 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 itwithout 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 tohave her so near and it would be nice for you and I both to have a richbrother-in-law."

  "I don't know about that," says I. "Somebody might do us a mischief in afit o' jealous rage."

  "He'd show us enough good times to make up for whatever they done," saysthe Wife. "We're foolish if we don't make no play for him and it'd bestart
in' off right to take him along to this here op'ra and set him inthe 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' thedespondents' ward and they was all smiles and pep, but they acted like Iwasn't in the house; so, to make it realistical, I blowed down to Andy'sand looked after some o' my other investments.

  * * * * *

  We always have dinner Sundays at one o'clock, but o' course Bishopdidn't know that and showed up prompt at ten bells, before I washalf-way through the comical section. I had to go to the door becausethe Missus don't never put on her shoes till she's positive the familyon 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 withflatirons and we set down and was tryin' to think o' somethin' more tosay 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 useriskin' it."

  So then I and Bishop knocked the street-car service and President Wilsonand give each other the double O. He wasn't what you could call uglylookin', but if you'd come out in print and say he was handsome, a goodlawyer'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 slippedover 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 wirewheel. They wouldn't of been no difference in his photograph if you tookit with a X-ray or a camera. But he had hair and two eyes and a mouthand all the rest of it, and his clo'es was certainly class. Why wouldn'tthey be? He could pick out cloth that was thirty bucks a yard and get asuit and overcoat for fifteen bucks. A umbrella cover would of made hima year's pyjamas.

  Well, I seen the Missus sneak from the kitchen to her room to don theshoe 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 andsingin'."

  "Yes," says Bishop, "but the music and singin' in the different op'rasis 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'tnothin' 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 andhadn't never been gave prev'ous to this season. So I thought I'd have alittle 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. "Theactors 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 yousay 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 Tuesdaynight.

  "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 pronouncementwould 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 isthe 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 otherfella shows down his hand and the first fella had a straight and thoughtit 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 itstronger. 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 setamongst the riff and raff. I dropped the subject right there and wasgoin' to tell the girls about it when he'd went home. But the Missuscrabbed 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'tno 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 rightall 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 Iwas invited. I should certainly hate to break up a party, and if I'dknew 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, Isurely would enjoy your company."

  "You can enjoy ourn most any night for nothin'," I says. "But if youdon'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 sayit's a whiz when it's acted right."

  "There!" says the Missus. "That settles it. You can change the ticketsto-morrow."

  So I was stopped and they wasn't no more to say, and after a w'ile wehad dinner and then I seen why Bishop was so skinny. 'Parently he hadn'ttasted fodder before for a couple o' mont's.

  "It must keep you busy writin' them scenarios," I says. "No
time to eator nothin'."

  "Oh, I eat oncet in a w'ile even if I don't look it," he says. "I don'toften get a chance at food that's cooked like this. Your wife's somedandy little cook!"

  "It runs in the family, I guess," says Bessie. "You'd ought to taste mycookin'."

  "Maybe he will some day," says the Missus, and then her and Bessiepretended 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 washdishes."

  "Nothin' doin'," says the Wife. "I'm goin' to stack them and then I andyou'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 runover there and see that everything was O. K."

  So I wasn't even allowed to set down and smoke, but had to help unloadthe table and then go out in the cold. And it was rotten weather andSunday 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 thefamily?"

  "He'd fit in a flute," I says. "He's the skinniest thing I ever seen. Itseems like a shame to pay five dollars for a seat for him when him andBessie could sit in the same seat without contact."

  "He is slender," says the Missus. "Prob'ly they been starvin' him wherehe boards at."

  "I bet they wouldn't starve me on ten thousand a year," I says. "Butmaybe they don't know he's at the table or think he's just one o' themacaroni."

  "It's all right for you to make jokes about him," says she, "but if youhad his brains we'd be better off."

  "If I had his brains," I says, "he'd go up like a balloon. If he lost anounce, gravity wouldn't have no effect on him."

  "You don't have to bulge out to be a man," says the Missus. "He's smartand he's rich and he's a swell dresser and I don't think we could find abetter 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'dmake a great hand if you was playin' deuces wild."

  Well, we walked round till our feet was froze and then we went home, andBishop says he would have to go, but the Missus ast him to stay tosupper, 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 thechoice 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 kitchentill 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 abouteighty in line ahead o' me, and I was hopin' the house would be sold outfor a week before I got up to the window. While I was markin' time Ilooked at the pitchers o' the different actors, hung up on the posts toadvertise some kind o' hair tonic. I wisht I had Bishop along to tell mewhat the different names meant in English. I suppose most o' them meantGoatee or Spinach or Brush or Hedge or Thicket or somethin'. Then theywas the girls' pitchers, too; Genevieve Farr'r that died in theStockyards scene in _Carmen_, and Fanny Alda that took the part o' theMichaels girl from Janesville, and Mary Gardner, and Louise Edviney thatwas 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 haveto wait till the three women behind me done their shoppin', and then Ihauled out my two tickets and ast the agent what would he give me forthem.

  "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 theplace o' these two."

  "Here's four nice ones in the seventh row," says he. "It'll be tendollars 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 awallop."

  "Yes," I says, "but one o' the four that's goin' is a little skinnyfella 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 insteado' 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 Igive him the two tickets and a bonus o' ten bucks and he give me backfour pasteboards and throwed in a envelope free for nothin'.

  I passed up lunch Tuesday because I wanted to get home early and haveplenty o' time to dress. That was the idear and it worked out every bitas successful as the Peace Ship. In the first place, I couldn't get inmy room because that's where the Missus and Bess was makin' up. In thesecond place, I didn't need to of allowed any time for supper becausethere wasn't none. The Wife said her and Bessie'd been so busy withtheir 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 gosomewheres 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 fortickets, 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 waiteruniform. 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 afifty-meg evenin' dress marked down to thirty-seven. I know, because Ihad 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' nosecrets 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 bestthis oncet."

  "And I suppose it don't make no difference how you look," says I, "aslong as you only got me to please. If Bishop's friends sees him withBessie they'll say: 'My! he's copped out a big-leaguer.' But if I runinto 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 along-term lease he's bound to see that there dress on you some time andthen what'll he think?"

  "Bess can keep the gown," says the Missus. "I'll make her give me one ofher'n for it."

  "With
your tradin' ability," I says, "you'd ought to be the CincinnatiReds' manager. But if you do give the dress to her," I says, "warn hernot to wear it in Wabash--except when the marshal's over on the otherstreet."

  Well, we was ready in a few minutes, because I'm gettin' used to thesoup and fish, and everything went on easy owin' to my vacuum, and I wastoo weak to shave; and the Missus didn't have no trouble with Bessie'screation, 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 hewon.

  "I just got paid to-day," he says, "and I didn't have time to getchange."

  They wasn't only one seat. Bess took it first and then offered it to theMissus.

  "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 hertemper.

  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.

  I laid down a quarter and grabbed one o' the books.

  "It's thirty-five cents," says the guy.

  "_Carmen_ wasn't only a quarter," I says. "Is this show better'n_Carmen_?"

  "This is a new one," the guy says.

  "This fella," I says, pointin' to Bishop, "seen it a year ago."

  "He must have a good imagination," says the guy.

  "No," I says, "he writes movin'-pitcher plays."

  I give up a extra dime, because they didn't seem to be nothin' else todo. Then I handed over my tickets to the fella at the door and we wastook right down amongst the high polloi. Say, I thought the dress Besswas wearin' was low; ought to been, seein' it was cut down from fiftybucks to thirty-seven. But the rest o' the gowns round us must of beensixty per cent. off.

  I says to the Missus:

  "I bet you wisht now you hadn't swapped costumes."

  "Oh, I don't know," she says. "It's chilly in here."

  Well, it may of been chilly then, but not after the op'ra got goin'good. Carmen was a human refrigerator compared to the leadin' lady inthis show. Set through two acts and you couldn't hardly believe it wasDecember.

  But the curtain was supposed to go up at eight-ten, and it wasn't onlyabout that time when we got there, so they was over half a hour to killbefore the show begin. I looked in my program and seen the realtranslation o' the title. _The Love o' Three Kings_, it says, and no "ofGod" to it. I'd of knew anyway, when I'd read the plot, that He didn'thave nothin' to do with it.

  I listened a w'ile to Bishop and Bess.

  "And you've saw all the op'ras?" she ast him.

  "Most o' them," he says.

  "How grand!" says Bessie. "I wisht I could see a lot o' them."

  "Well," he says, "you're goin' to be here for some time."

  "Oh, Mr. Bishop, I don't want you throwin' all your money away on me,"she says.

  "I don't call it throwin' money away," says Bishop.

  "I wouldn't neither," I says. "I'd say Bishop was muscle-bound."

  They didn't pay no attention to me.

  "What ones would you like to see?" he ast her.

  "What are your favorights?" says Bess.

  "Oh," says Bishop, "I've saw them all so many times that it don't reallymake no difference to me. Sometimes they give two the same night, twoshort ones, and then you ain't so liable to get bored."

  Saturday nights is when they usually give the two, and Saturday nightsthey cut the prices. This here Bishop wasn't no boob.

  "One good combination," he says, "is _Polly Archer_ and _CavalierRusticana_. They're both awful pretty."

  "Oh, I'd love to see them," says Bessie. "What are they like?"

  So he says Polly Archer was a leadin' lady in a stock company and theleadin' man and another fella was both stuck on her and she loved one o'them--I forget which one; whichever wasn't her husbun'--and they was aplace in one o' their shows where the one that was her husbun' wassupposed to get jealous and stab she and her lover, just actin', but,instead o' just pretendin', this one night he played a joke on them anddone the stabbin' in earnest, and they was both killed. Well, that'd bea good one to see if you happened to be there the night he really killsthem; otherwise, it sounds pretty tame. And Bishop also told her about_Cavalier Rusticana_ that means Rural Free Delivery in English, and Ididn't get the plot only that the mail carrier flirts with one o' thefarmers' wives and o' course the rube spears him with a pitchfork. Thestate's attorneys must of been on the jump all the w'ile in them days.

  Finally the orchestra was all in their places and an old guy with abeard come out in front o' them.

  "That's the conductor," says Bishop.

  "He looks like he'd been a long time with the road," I says.

  Then up went the curtain and the thermometer.

  * * * * *

  The scene's laid in Little Italy, but you can't see nothin' when itstarts off because it's supposed to be just before mornin'. Pretty soonone o' the three kings comes in with a grouch. He's old and blind as abat and he ain't slept good and he's sore at the conductor on account o'the train bein' a half-hour late, and the conductor's jealous of himbecause his beard's longer, and Archibald, that's the old king's name,won't sing what the orchestra's playin', but just snarls and growls, andthe orchestra can't locate what key he's snarlin' in, so they don't getalong at all, and finally Flamingo, that's the old king's chauffeur,steers him off'n the stage.

  Acrost on the other side o' the stage from where they go off they's abungalow, and out of it comes Flora and another o' the kings, a youngfella with a tenor voice named Veto. They sing about what a fine mornin'it is in Wop and she tells him he'd better fly his kite before Archibaldcatches him.

  It seems like she's married to Archibald's son, Fred, but o' course shelikes Veto better or it wouldn't be no op'ra. Her and Veto was raised inthe same ward and they was oncet engaged to be married, but Archibald'sgang trimmed Veto's in a big roughhouse one night and Flora was part o'the spoils. When Archibald seen how good she could fix spaghett' he wasbound she'd stick in the family, so he give her the choice o' bein'killed or marryin' his boy, so she took Fred but didn't really mean itin earnest. So Veto hangs round the house a lot, because old Archibald'sblind and Fred's generally always on the road with the Erie sectiongang.

  But old Archibald's eyes bein' no good, his ears is so much the better,even if he don't sometimes keep with the orchestra, so he comes back onthe stage just after Veto's went and he hears Flora tryin' to snoop backin her bungalow.

  "Who was you talkin' to?" he says.

  "Myself," says Flora.

  "Great stuff!" says Archibald. "Up and outdoors at five A.M. to talk toyourself! Feed that to the goldfish!"

  So she ain't got him fooled for a minute, but w'ile they're arguin' Fredblows in. So Archibald don't say nothin' about his superstition becausehe ain't sure, so Fred and his Missus goes in the bungalow to havebreakfast and Archibald stays on the stage quarrelin' with theconductor.

  If Fred was eatin' all through the intermission, he must of been ashungry as me, because it was plain forty minutes before the second actbegin. Him and Flora comes out o' their house and Fred says he's got togo right away again because they's a bad wash-out this side o'Huntington. He ain't no sooner gone than Veto's back on the job, butFlora's kind o' sorry for her husbun', and Veto don't get the receptionthat a star ought to expect.

  "Why don't you smile at me?" he says.

  So she says:

  "It don't seem proper, dearie, with a husbun' on the Erie."

  But before long she can't resist his
high notes and the next five or tenminutes is a love scene between the two, and they was a couple o' timeswhen I thought the management would ring down the asbestos curtain.Finally old Archibald snoops back on the stage with Flamingo, and Vetoruns, but Archie hears him and it's good night. The old boy gives Florathe third degree and she owns up, and then Flamingo says that Fred'scomin' back to get his dinner pail. So Archibald insists on knowin' thefella's name that he heard him runnin' away, but Flora's either forgotit or else she's stubborn, so Archie looses his temper and wrings herneck. So when Fred arrives he gets the su'prise of his life and findsout he's a widow.

  "I slayed her," says Archibald. "She wasn't no good."

  "She was the best cook we ever had," says Fred. "What was the matterwith her?"

  "She had a gentleman friend," says his old man.

  Well, so far, they's only one dead and nothin' original about how it waspulled. You can go over to the Victoria and see any number o'throttlin's at fifty cents for the best seats. So it was up to themanagement to get a wallop into the last act. It took them pretty nearforty minutes to think of it, but it was good when it come.

  The scene is Colosimo's undertakin' rooms and Flora's ruins is laid outon the counter. All the Wops from her ward stand round singin' gospelhymns.

  When they've beat it Veto approaches the bier bar and wastes some prettyfair singin' on the late Flora. Then all of a sudden he leans over andgives her a kiss. That's all for Veto. You see, Old Fox Archibald hadfigured that the bird that loved her would pull somethin' like this andhe'd doped out a way to learn who he was and make him regret it at thesame time, besides springin' some bran'-new stuff in the killin' line.So he's mixed up some rat poison and garlic and spread it on the lips ofhis fair daughter-in-law.

  W'ile Veto's dyin' Fred comes in and finds him.

  "So it was you, was it?" he says.

  "I'm the guy," says Veto.

  "Well," says Fred, "this'll learn you a lesson, you old masher, you!"

  "I'll mash you in a minute," says Veto, but the way he was now, hecouldn't of mashed turnips.

  "I kissed her last, anyway," says Veto.

  "You think you did!" says Fred, and helps himself to the garlic.

  So Veto's dead and Fred's leanin' over the counter, dyin', whenArchibald wabbles in. He finds his way up to Fred and grabs a hold ofhim, thinkin' it's the stranger.

  "Lay off'n me, pa," says Fred. "This ain't the other bird. He's dead andit's got me, too."

  "Well," says the old man, "that'd ought to satisfy them. But it's prettytough on the Erie."

  * * * * *

  "How grand!" says Bess when it was over.

  "But it leaves you with a bad taste," says Bishop.

  "And a big appetite," I says.

  "Did that old man kill them all?" ast the Missus.

  "All but hisself and Flamingo," says I.

  "What was he mad at?" says she.

  "He was drove crazy by hunger," I says. "His wife and his sister-in-lawand her fella was starvin' him to death."

  "Bein' blind, he prob'ly spilled things at table," says the Missus."Blind men sometimes has trouble gettin' their food."

  "The trouble ain't confined to the blind," says I.

  When we got outside I left Bess and Bishop lead the way, hopin' they'dhead to'rds a steak garage.

  "No hurry about gettin' home," I hollered to them. "The night's stillyoung yet."

  Bishop turned round.

  "Is they any good eatin' places out by your place?" he says.

  I thought I had him.

  "Not as good as down-town," says I, and I named the Loop restaurants.

  "How's the car service after midnight?" he says.

  "Grand!" says I. "All night long."

  I wondered where he would take us. Him and Bess crossed the avenue andstopped where the crowd was waitin' for south-bound cars.

  "He's got some favorite place a ways south," says the Missus.

  A car come and I and her clumb aboard. We looked back just in time tosee Bessie and Bishop wavin' us farewell.

  "They missed the car," says the Missus.

  "Yes," I says, "and they was just as anxious to catch it as if it'd beenthe leprosy."

  "Never mind," says the Missus. "If he wants to be alone with her it's agood sign."

  "I can't eat a sign," says I.

  "We'll stop at The Ideal and have a little supper of our own," she says.

  "We won't," says I.

  "Why not?" says the Missus.

  "Because," I says, "they's exactly thirty-five cents in my pocket. Andofferin' my stomach seventeen and a half cents' worth o' food now wouldbe just about like sendin' one blank cartridge to the Russian army."

  "I think they's some crackers in the house," she says.

  "Prob'ly," says I. "We're usually that way--overstocked. You don't seemto realize that our household goods is only insured for a thousand."

  * * * * *

  About one o'clock I went to sleep from sheer weakness. About one-thirtythe Missus shook me and woke me up.

  "We win, Joe!" she says, all excited. "I think Bishop and Bess isengaged!"

  "Win!" says I. "Say, if you was a Frenchman you'd have a big celebrationevery anniversary o' the Battle o' Waterloo."

  "I was goin' out in the kitchen to get a drink," she says. "Bess washome, but I didn't know it. And when I was comin' back from the kitchenI happened to glance in the livin'-room. And I seen Bishop kiss her!Isn't it great!"

  "Yes," I says. "But I wisht she'd of had Archibald fix up her lips."