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 tomorrow night.”
“Oh, no,” he says “we got plenty o’ seats.”
“But nothin’ downstairs, 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 downstairs 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 today 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 streetcar. I was first and he won.
“I just got paid today,” 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,”
