“And what did you tell her?” says I.
“What do you think I’d tell her?” says the Missus. “I told her yes.”
“Wasn’t you triflin’ a little with the truth?” I ast her.
“Certainly not!” she says. “Haven’t I played twice over to Hatches’? So then she ast me if my husband played bridge, too. And I told her yes, he did.”
“What was the idear?” I says. “You know I didn’t never play it in my life.”
“I don’t know no such a thing,” she says. “For all as I know, you may play all day down to the office.”
“No,” I says; “we spend all our time down there playin’ post-office with the scrubwomen.”
“Well, anyway, I told her you did,” says the Missus. “Don’t you see they wasn’t nothin’ else I could tell her, because if I told her you didn’t, that would of ended it.”
“Ended what?” I says.
“We wouldn’t of been ast to the party,” says the Missus.
“Who told you they was goin’ to be a party?” I says.
“I don’t have to be told everything,” says the Missus. “I got brains enough to know that Mrs. Messenger ain’t callin’ me up and astin’ me do we play bridge just because she’s got a headache or feels lonesome or somethin’. But it ain’t only one party after all, and that’s the best part of it. She ast us if we’d care to join the club.”
“What club?” says I.
“Mrs. Messenger’s club, the San Susie Club,” says the Missus. “You’ve heard me speak about it a hundred times, and it’s been mentioned in the papers once or twice, too—once, anyway, when the members give away them Christmas dinners last year.”
“We can get into the papers,” I says, “without givin’ away no Christmas dinners.”
“Who wants to get into the papers?” says the Wife. “I don’t care nothin’ about that.”
“No,” I says; “I suppose if a reporter come out here and ast for your pitcher to stick in the society columns, you’d pick up the carvin’ knife and run him ragged.”
“I’d be polite to him, at least,” she says.
“Yes,” says I; “it wouldn’t pay to treat him rude; it’d even be justifiable to lock him in w’ile you was lookin’ for the pitcher.”
“If you’ll kindly leave me talk you may find out what I got to say,” she says. “I’ve told you about this club, but I don’t suppose you ever paid any attention. It’s a club that’s made up from people that just lives in this block, twenty o’ them altogether; and all but one couple either lives in this buildin’ or in the buildin’ the Messengers lives in. And they’re all nice people, people with real class to them; not no tramps like most o’ the ones we been runnin’ round with. One o’ them’s Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Collins that used to live on Sheridan Road and still goes over to parties at some o’ the most exclusive homes on the North Side. And they don’t have nobody in the club that isn’t congenial with each other, but all just a nice crowd o’ real people that gets together once a week at one o’ the members’ houses and have a good time.”
“How did these pillows o’ Society happen to light on to us?” I ast her.
“Well,” she says, “it seems like the Baileys, who belonged to the club, went to California last week to spend the winter. And they had to have a couple to take their place. And Mrs. Messenger says they wouldn’t take nobody that didn’t live in our block, and her and her husband looked over the list and we was the ones they picked out.”
“Probably,” I says, “that’s because we was the only eligibles that can go out nights on account o’ not havin’ no children.”
“The Pearsons ain’t ast,” she says, “and they ain’t got no children.”
“Well,” I says, “what’s the dues?”
“They ain’t no dues,” says the Missus. “But once in a w’ile, instead o’ playin’ bridge, everybody puts in two dollars apiece and have a theater party. But the regular program is for an evenin’ o’ bridge every Tuesday night, at different members’ houses, somebody different actin’ as hosts every week. And each couple puts up two dollars, makin’ ten dollars for a gent’s prize and ten dollars for a lady’s. And the prizes is picked out by the lady that happens to be the hostess.”
“That’s a swell proposition for me,” I says. “In the first place they wouldn’t be a chance in the world for me to win a prize, because I don’t know nothin’ about the game. And, in the second place, suppose I had a whole lot o’ luck and did win the prize, and come to find out it was a silver mustache cup that I wouldn’t have no more use for than another Adam’s apple! If they paid in cash they might be somethin’ to it.”
“If you win a prize you can sell it, can’t you?” says the Missus. “Besides, the prizes don’t count. It’s gettin’ in with the right kind o’ people that makes the difference.”
“Another thing,” I says: “When it come our turn to have the party, where would we stick ’em all? We’d have to spread a sheet over the bathtub for one table, and have one couple set on the edges and the other couple toss up for the washbasin and the clothes-hamper. And another two couple’d have to kneel round the bed, and another bunch could stand up round the bureau. That’d leave the dinin’ room table for the fourth set; and for a special treat the remainin’ four could play in the parlor.”
“We could hire chairs and tables,” says the Missus. “We’re goin’ to have to some time, anyway, when you or I die.”
“You don’t need to hire no tables for my funeral,” I says. “If the pallbearers
