It was an old argument and Mrs. Shelton did not care to continue it. She knew she couldn’t win and she was sleepy. Moreover, she was so glad they were “going out” on her husband’s own insistence that she felt quite kindly toward him. She did hope, though, that their new acquaintances would suppress their educational complex if any.
On Wednesday night this hope was knocked for a double row of early June peas. Mrs. Shelton was elected to play with French, Mrs. Cameron and Mr. Dittmar. Mrs. Cameron was what is referred to as a statuesque blonde, but until you were used to her you could think of nothing but her nostrils, where she might easily have carried two after dinner mints. Mr. Dittmar appeared to be continuing to enjoy his meal long after it was over. And French had to deal one-handed to be sure his mustache remained loyal. These details distracted Mrs. Shelton’s mind to such an extent that she made a few errors and was called for them. But she didn’t mind that and her greatest distraction was caused by words and phrases that came from the other table, where her husband was engaged with Mr. Cameron, Mrs. Dittmar and the hostess.
The French cocktails had been poured from an eye-dropper and Shelton maintained perfect control of his temper and tongue. His polite reception of each criticism was taken as a confession of ignorance and a willingness to learn, and his three table-mates were quick to assume the role of faculty, with him as the entire student-body. He was stepped on even when he was dummy, his partner at the time, Mrs. Dittmar, attributing the loss of a trick to the manner in which he had laid out his cards, the light striking the nine of diamonds in such a way as to make her think it was an honor.
Mrs. Dittmar had married a man much younger than herself and was trying to disguise that fact by acting much younger than he. An eight-year-old child who is kind of backward hardly ever plays contract bridge; otherwise, if you didn’t look at Mrs. Dittmar and judged only by her antics and manner of speech, you would have thought Dittmar had spent the final hours of his courtship waiting outside the sub-primary to take her home. Mrs. French, when she was not picking flaws in Shelton’s play, sought to make him feel at home by asking intelligent questions about his work—“Do the people who draw the illustrations read the stories first?” “Does H. C. Witwer talk Negro dialect all the time?” And “How old is Peter B. Kinney?” Cameron, from whom Work, Lenz, Whitehead and Shepard had plagiarized the game, was frankly uninterested in anything not connected with it. The stake was half a cent a point and the pains he took to see that his side’s score was correct or better proved all the rumors about the two Scotchmen.
Mrs. Shelton was well aware that her husband was the politest man in the world when sober; yet he truly amazed her that evening by his smiling acquiescence to all that was said. From the snatches she overheard, she knew he must be afire inside and it was really wonderful of him not to show it.
There was a time when Mrs. Dittmar passed and he passed and Cameron bid two spades. Mrs. French passed and Mrs. Dittmar bid three hearts, a denial of her partner’s spades if Shelton ever heard one. Shelton passed and Cameron went three hearts, which stood. Shelton held four spades to the nine, four diamonds to the king, two small hearts and the eight, six and five of clubs. He led the trey of diamonds. I am not broadcasting the battle play by play, but when it was over, “Oh, partner! Any other opening and we could have set them,” said Mrs. French.
“My! My! My! My! Leading away from a king!” gurgled the child-wife.
“That lead was all that saved us,” said Cameron.
They waited for Shelton to apologize and explain, all prepared to scrunch him if he did either.
“I guess I made a mistake,” he said.
“Haven’t you played much bridge?” asked Mrs. French.
“Evidently not enough,” he replied.
“It’s a game you can’t learn in a minute,” said Cameron.
“Never you mind!” said Mrs. Dittmar. “I’ve played contract ever since it came out, and Daddy still scolds me terribly for some of the things I do.”
Shelton presumed that Daddy was her husband. Her father must be dead or at least too feeble to scold.
There was a time when a hand was passed around.
“Oh! A goulash!” crowed Mrs. Dittmar.
“Do you play them, Mr. Shelton?” asked his hostess.
“Yes,” said Shelton.
“Mrs. Shelton,” called Mrs. Dittmar to the other table, “does your big man play goulashes?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Shelton.
“You’re sure you know what they are,” said Cameron to Shelton.
“I’ve played them often,” said the latter.
“A goulash,” said the hostess, “is where the hand is passed and then we all put our hands together like this and cut them and the dealer deals five around twice and then three. It makes crazy hands, but it’s thrilling.”
“And the bidding is different,” said Mrs. Dittmar, his partner at this stage. “Big mans musn’t get too wild.”
Shelton, who had dealt, looked at his hand and saw no temptation to get wild; at least, not any wilder than he was. He had the king, queen
