“Who was you talkin’ to?” he says.
“Myself,” says Flora.
“Great stuff!” says Archibald. “Up and outdoors at five a.m. to talk to yourself! Feed that to the goldfish!”
So she ain’t got him fooled for a minute, but w’ile they’re arguin’ Fred blows in. So Archibald don’t say nothin’ about his superstition because he ain’t sure, so Fred and his Missus goes in the bungalow to have breakfast and Archibald stays on the stage quarrelin’ with the conductor.
If Fred was eatin’ all through the intermission, he must of been as hungry as me, because it was plain forty minutes before the second act begin. Him and Flora comes out o’ their house and Fred says he’s got to go right away again because they’s a bad washout this side o’ Huntington. He ain’t no sooner gone than Veto’s back on the job, but Flora’s kind o’ sorry for her husbun’, and Veto don’t get the reception that 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 ten minutes is a love scene between the two, and they was a couple o’ times when I thought the management would ring down the asbestos curtain. Finally old Archibald snoops back on the stage with Flamingo, and Veto runs, but Archie hears him and it’s good night. The old boy gives Flora the third degree and she owns up, and then Flamingo says that Fred’s comin’ back to get his dinner pail. So Archibald insists on knowin’ the fella’s name that he heard him runnin’ away, but Flora’s either forgot it or else she’s stubborn, so Archie looses his temper and wrings her neck. So when Fred arrives he gets the su’prise of his life and finds out 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 matter with her?”
“She had a gentleman friend,” says his old man.
Well, so far, they’s only one dead and nothin’ original about how it was pulled. 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 the management to get a wallop into the last act. It took them pretty near forty 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 out on the counter. All the Wops from her ward stand round singin’ gospel hymns.
When they’ve beat it Veto approaches the bier bar and wastes some pretty fair singin’ on the late Flora. Then all of a sudden he leans over and gives her a kiss. That’s all for Veto. You see, Old Fox Archibald had figured that the bird that loved her would pull somethin’ like this and he’d doped out a way to learn who he was and make him regret it at the same 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 of his 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, he couldn’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’, when Archibald wabbles in. He finds his way up to Fred and grabs a hold of him, thinkin’ it’s the stranger.
“Lay off’n me, pa,” says Fred. “This ain’t the other bird. He’s dead and it’s got me, too.”
“Well,” says the old man, “that’d ought to satisfy them. But it’s pretty tough 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-law and 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’d head to’rds a steak garage.
“No hurry about gettin’ home,” I hollered to them. “The night’s still young 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 downtown,” 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 and stopped where the crowd was waitin’ for southbound 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 to see 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 been the leprosy.”
“Never mind,” says the Missus. “If he wants to be alone with her it’s a good 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. And offerin’ my stomach seventeen and a half cents’ worth o’ food now would be just about like sendin’ one blank
