The thirteenth o’ June didn’t light on a Friday, but old Tuesday come through in the pinch with just as good results. Dear little Sister-in-law Bess blew in on the afternoon train from Wabash. She says she was makin’ us a surprise visit. The surprise affected me a good deal like the one that was pulled on Napoleon at Waterloo, IAs.
“How long are you goin’ to light up our home?” I ast her at the supper table.
“I haven’t made up my mind,” says she.
“That’s all you’ve missed, then,” I says.
“Don’t mind him!” says my Missus. “He’s just a tease. You look grand and we’re both tickled to death to have you here. You may stay with us all summer.”
“No question about that,” I says. “Not only may, but li’ble to.”
“If I do,” says Bess, “it’ll be on my sister’s account, not yourn.”
“But I’m the baby that settles your sister’s account,” I says; “and it was some account after you left us last winter. With your visit and our cute little trip to Palm Beach, I’m not what you’d call cramped for pocket space.”
“I guess I can pay my board,” says Bess.
“I guess you won’t!” says the Wife.
“The second guess is always better,” says I.
“As for you entertainin’ me, I don’t expect nothin’ like that,” says Bess.
“If you was lookin’ for a quiet time,” I says, “you made a big mistake by leavin’ Wabash.”
“And I’m not lookin’ for no quiet time, neither,” Bess says right back at me.
“Well,” says I, “about the cheapest noisy time I can recommend is to go over and set under the elevated.”
“Maybe Bess has somethin’ up in her sleeve,” the Missus says, smilin’. “You ain’t the only man in Chicago.”
“I’m the only one she knows,” says I, “outside o’ that millionaire scenario writer that had us all in misery last winter. And I wouldn’t say he was over-ardent after he’d knew her a week.”
Then the Wife winked at me to close up and I didn’t get the dope till we was alone together.
“They correspond,” she told me.
“Absolutely,” says I.
“I mean they been writin’ letters to each other,” says the Missus.
“Who’s been buyin’ Bishop’s stamps?” I ast her.
“I guess a man can buy his own stamps when he gets ten thousand a year,” says she. “Anyway, the reason Bess is here is to see him.”
“Is it illegal for him to go to Wabash and see her?” I says.
“He’s too busy to go to Wabash,” the Wife says.
“I don’t see how a man could be too busy for that,” says I.
“She phoned him this noon,” says the Missus. “He couldn’t come over here tonight, but tomorrow he’s goin’ to take her to the ball game.”
“Where all the rest o’ the busy guys hangs out,” I says. “Aren’t the White Sox havin’ enough bad luck without him?”
That reminded me that I’d came home before the final extras was out; so I put on my hat and went over to Tim’s to look at the scoreboard. It took me till one a.m. to memorize the batteries and everything. The Wife was still awake yet when I got home and I had enough courage to resume hostilities.
“If what you told me about Bishop and Bess is true,” I says, “I guess I’ll pack up and go fishin’ for the rest o’ the summer.”
“And leave me to starve, I suppose!” says she.
“Bishop’ll take care of the both o’ you,” I says. “If he don’t I’ll send you home a couple o’ carp.”
“If you go and leave me it’s the last time!” she says. “And it shows you don’t care nothin’ about me.”
“I care about you, all right,” I says; “but not enough to be drove crazy in my own house.”
“They’s nothin’ for you to go crazy about,” she says. “If Bess and Mr. Bishop wants to tie up leave ’em alone and forget about ’em.”
“I’d like nothin’ better,” I says; “but you know they’ll give us no chance to forget about ’em.”
“Why not?” she ast me.
“Because they’d starve to death without us,” I says.
“Starve to death!” she says. “On ten thousand a year!”
“Now here!” I says. “Who told you he got that trifle?”
“He did,” says the Wife.
“And how do you know he wasn’t overestimatin’?” I ast her.
“You mean how do I know he wasn’t lyin’?” she says.
“Yes,” says I.
“Because he’s a gentleman,” she says.
“And he told you that, too?” I ast.
“No,” she says. “I could tell that by lookin’ at him.”
“All right, Clara Voyant!” I says. “And maybe you can tell by lookin’ at me how much money he borrowed off’n me and never give back.”
“When? How much?” she says.
“One at a time, please,” says I. “The amount o’ the cash transaction was a twenty-dollar gold certificate. And the time he shook me down was the evenin’ he took us to hear Ada, and was supposed to be payin’ for it.”
“I can’t believe it,” says the Missus.
“All right,” I says. “When he brings Bessie home from the ball game tomorrow I’ll put it up to him right in front o’ you.”
“No! You mustn’t do that!” she says. “I won’t have him insulted.”
“You would have him insulted if I knowed how to go about it,” I says.
“You stayed over to Tim’s too long,” says the Wife.
“Yes,” says I, “and I made arrangements to stay over there every time Bishop comes here.”
“Suit yourself,” she says, and pretended like she was asleep.
Well, the next mornin’ I got to thinkin’ over what I’d said and wonderin’ if I’d went too strong. But I couldn’t see where. This bird was a dude that had got acquainted with Bessie on the train when she was on her way here to visit us last winter. He’d infested the house all the while she was with us. He’d gave us that ten-thousand-dollar yarn and told us he made it by writin’ movin’-pitcher plays, but we never seen none o’ them advertised and never run into anybody
