“What seems to be the trouble?” he says. “This ain’t no barroom.”
“Nobody’d ever suspect it o’ bein’,” I says.
“Look what he done!” says Mrs. Garrett. “He raised my no-trump bid over three spades without a spade in his hand.”
“Well,” says Mr. Garrett, “they’s no use gettin’ all fussed up over a game o’ cards. The thing to do is pick up your hand and play it out and take your medicine.”
“I can set her three,” said Mrs. Collins. “I got seven spades, with the ace, king and queen, and I’ll catch her jack on the third lead.”
“And I got the ace o’ hearts,” says Messenger. “Even if it didn’t take a trick it’d make aces easy; so our three hundred above the line gives Mrs. Collins a score of about ten more’n Mrs. Garrett.”
“All right, then,” says Garrett. “Mrs. Collins is entitled to the lady’s prize.”
“I don’t want to take it,” says Mrs. Collins.
“You got to take it,” says Garrett.
And he give his wife a look that meant business. Anyway, she got up and went out o’ the room, and when she come back she was smilin’. She had two packages in her hand, and she give one to Messenger and one to Mrs. Collins.
“There’s the prizes,” she says; “and I hope you’ll like ’em.”
Messenger unwrapped his’n and it was one o’ them round leather cases that you use to carry extra collars in when you’re travelin’. Messenger had told me earlier in the evenin’ that he hadn’t been outside o’ Chicago in six years.
Mrs. Collins’ prize was a chafin’ dish.
“I don’t blame Mrs. Garrett for bein’ so crazy to win it,” I says to her when they couldn’t nobody hear. “Her and Garrett both must get hungry along about nine or ten p.m.”
“I hate to take it,” says Mrs. Collins.
“I wouldn’t feel that way,” I says. “I guess Mrs. Garrett will chafe enough without it.”
When we was ready to go I shook hands with the host and hostess and says I was sorry if I’d pulled a boner.
“It was to be expected,” says Mrs. Garrett.
“Yes,” I says; “a man’s liable to do most anything when he’s starvin’ to death.”
The Messengers and Collinses was a little ways ahead of us on the stairs and I wanted we should hurry and catch up with ’em.
“You let ’em go!” says the Missus. “You’ve spoiled everything now without doin’ nothin’ more. Every time you talk you insult somebody.”
“I ain’t goin’ to insult them,” I says. “I’m just goin’ to ask ’em to go down to the corner and have a drink.”
“You are not!” she says.
But she’s just as good a prophet as she is a bridge player. They wouldn’t go along, though, sayin’ it was late and they wanted to get to bed.
“Well, if you won’t, you won’t,” says I. “We’ll see you all a week from tonight. And don’t forget, Mrs. Collins, that I’m responsible for you winnin’ that chafin’ dish, and I’m fond o’ welsh rabbits.”
I was glad that we didn’t have to go far to our buildin’. The Missus was pleasant company, just like a bloodhound with the rabies. I left her in the vestibule and went down to help Mike close up. He likes to be amongst friends at a sad hour like that.
At breakfast the next mornin’ the Wife was more calm.
“Dearie,” she says, “they don’t neither one of us class as bridge experts. I’ll admit I got a lot to learn about the game. What we want to do is play with the Hatches every evenin’ this week, and maybe by next Tuesday night we’ll know somethin’.”
“I’m willin’,” I says.
“I’ll call Mrs. Hatch up this forenoon,” she says, “and see if they want us to come over there this evenin’. But if we do go remember not to mention our club or tell ’em anything about the party.”
Well, she had news for me when I got home.
“The San Susies is busted up,” she says. “Not forever, but for a few months anyway. Mrs. Messenger called up to tell me.”
“What’s the idear?” I says.
“I don’t know exactly,” says the Missus. “Mrs. Messenger says that the Collinses had boxes for the opera every Tuesday night and the rest didn’t feel like goin’ on without the Collinses, and they couldn’t all o’ them agree on another night.”
“I don’t see why they should bust it up on account o’ one couple,” I says. “Why didn’t you tell ’em about the Hatches? They’re right here in the neighborhood and can play bridge as good as anybody.”
“I wouldn’t think o’ doin’ it,” says she. “They may play all right, but think o’ how they talk and how they dress!”
“Well,” I says, “between you and I, I ain’t goin’ to take cyanide over a piece o’ news like this. Somehow it don’t appeal to me to vote myself dry every Tuesday night all winter—to say nothin’ o’ two dollars a week annual dues to help buy a prize that I got no chance o’ winnin’ and wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had it.”
“It’d of been nice, though,” she says, “to make friends with them people.”
“Well,” I says, “I’ll feel a little more confident o’ doin’ that if I see ’em once a year—or not at all.”
IV
I can tell you the rest of it in about a minute. The Missus had became resigned and everything was goin’ along smooth till last Tuesday evenin’. They was a new Chaplin show over to the Acme and we was on our way to see it. At the entrance to the buildin’ where the Messengers lives we seen Mr. and Mrs. Hatch.
“Hello, there!” says the Wife. “Better come along with us to the Acme.”
“Not tonight,” says Mrs. Hatch. “We’re tied up every Tuesday evenin’.”
“Some club?” ast the Missus.
“Yes,” says Mrs. Hatch. “It’s a bridge club—the San Susie. The Messengers and Collinses and Garretts and us and
