We wandered round till dinnertime, and then dropped into a little restaurant where they give you a whole meal for thirty-five cents and make a profit of thirty-five cents. When we’d staggered out under the weight o’ this repast, a streetcar was standin’ there that said it would take us to the House o’ David.
“Come on!” I says, and led the Missus aboard.
“Where to?” she ast me.
“I don’t know,” I says; “but it sounds like a road house.”
It was even better’n that. You couldn’t get nothin’ to drink, but they was plenty to see and hear—band concerts, male and female; movin’ pitchers; a zoo; a bowlin’ alley; and more funny-lookin’ people than I ever seen in an amusement park before.
It ain’t a regular amusement park, but fifty-fifty between that and a kind of religious sex that calls themself the Holy Roller Skaters or somethin’. All the men that was old enough to keep a beard had one; and for a minute I thought we’d bumped into the summer home o’ the people that took part in Ada.
They wouldn’t nobody of ever mistook the women for Follies chorus girls. They looked like they was havin’ a prize contest to see which could dress the homeliest; and if I’d been one o’ the judges I’d of split the first prize as many ways as they was women.
“I’m goin’ to talk to some o’ these people,” I told the Wife.
“What for?” she says.
“Well, for one thing,” I says, “I been talkin’ to one person so long I’m tired of it; and, for another thing, I want to find out what the idear o’ the whole concern is.”
So we walked up to one o’ the most flourishin’ beards and I braced him.
“Who owns this joint?” I says.
“All who have the faith,” he says.
“What do they charge a man to join?” I ast him.
“Many’s called and few chosen,” he says.
“How long have you been here?” I ast him.
“Prove all things and hold fast to what’s good,” he says. “Why don’t you get some of our books and study ’em?”
He led us over to where they had the books and I looked at some o’ them. One was the Flyin’ Roll, and another was the Livin’ Roll o’ Life, and another was the Rollin’ Ball o’ Fire.
“If you had some books about coffee you could make a breakfast on ’em,” I says.
Well, we stuck round there till pretty near six o’clock and talked to a lot o’ different ones and ast ’em all kinds o’ questions; and they answered ’em all with verses from Scripture that had nothin’ to do with what we’d ast.
“We got a lot of information,” says the Wife on the way back to St. Joe. “We don’t know no more about ’em now than before we come.”
“We know their politics,” I says.
“How?” she ast me.
“From the looks of ’em,” I says. “They’re unanimous for Hughes.”
We found Bess all alone, settin’ in the lobby o’ the hotel.
“Where’s your honey man?” I ast her.
She turned up her nose.
“Don’t call him my honey man or my anything else,” she says.
“Why, what’s the matter?” ast the Missus.
“Nothin’ at all’s the matter,” she says.
“Maybe just a lovers’ quarrel,” says I.
“No, and no lovers’ quarrel, neither,” says Bess. “They couldn’t be no lovers’ quarrel, because they ain’t no lovers.”
“You had me fooled, then,” I says. “I’d of swore that you and Bishop was just like that.”
“You made a big mistake,” says Bessie. “I never cared nothin’ for him and he never cared nothin’ for me, because he’s incapable o’ carin’ for anything—only himself.”
“Why, Bess,” says the Missus, “you told me just yesterday mornin’ that you was practically engaged!”
“I don’t care what I told you,” she says; “but I’m tellin’ you somethin’ now: I don’t never want to hear of him or see him again. And you’ll do me a favor if you’ll drop the subject.”
“But where is he?” I ast her.
“I don’t know and I don’t care!” she says.
“But I got to find him,” I says. “He’s my guest.”
“You can have him,” she says.
I found him up in his room. The bell boy had got him somethin’, and it wasn’t poison, neither. At least I haven’t never died of it.
“Well, Bishop,” I says, “finish it up and come downstairs. Bess and the Wife’ll want some supper.”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says. “I don’t feel like eatin’ a thing.”
“But you can come down and set with us,” I says. “Bess will be sore if you don’t.”
“Listen here!” he says. “You’ve took too much for granted. They’s nothin’ between your sister-in-law and I. If you’ve set your heart on us bein’ somethin’ more’n friends, I’m sorry. But they’s not a chance.”
“Bishop,” I says, “this is a blow to me. It comes like a shock.”
And to keep myself from faintin’ I took the bottle from his dresser and completed its ruin.
“You won’t even come down and set with us?” I says.
“No,” says Bishop. “And, if you don’t mind, you can give me my ticket back home and I’ll stroll down to the dock and meet you on the boat.”
“Here’s your ticket,” says I.
“And where am I goin’ to sleep?” he says.
“Well,” I says, “I’ll get you a stateroom if you really want it; but it’s goin’ to be a bad night, and if you was in one o’ them berths, and somethin’ happened, you wouldn’t have a chance in the world!”
“You ain’t goin’ to have no berth, yourself?” he ast me.
“I should say not!” I
