“Sure!” I says. “The Theodore Roosevelt applies between here and Michigan City. You can go and come back the same day without entirely exhaustin’ a five-case note.”
“Oh, I want to go a little stronger’n that,” says he.
“Well,” I says, “why not hire a barge and drift down the drainage canal? Or rent a motorcycle with a tub on the side and bounce to Alton or East St. Louis?”
“I’m afraid o’ boats and I can’t ride a motorcycle,” says Quinn. “We was thinkin’ some o’ runnin’ over to Detroit and takin’ in some o’ the big factories.”
“I’ve heard ’em sing about honeymoons amongst the flowers,” says I, “and I suppose plants is just as good.”
“I and Marion’s both interested in machinery,” he says.
“Listen, then,” says I: “I got a friend that’s engineer on the Michigan Central and maybe he’ll let you ride the engine clear to Detroit.”
“That wouldn’t hardly do,” the kid says. “The dirt and grease and stuff’d spoil Marion’s new clothes.”
“Oh, that’s different, if she’s goin’ to have some new clothes,” I says.
“That reminds me,” says Quinn: “What is a man supposed to wear to get married?”
“It varies,” says I. “You wear somethin’ that’s appropriate to your father-in-law’s occupation. For instance, I was married in overalls and a jumper.”
“But Marion’s father’s retired,” says the kid.
“Take your choice, then,” says I, “between pyjamas and a nightgown.”
III
I was hopin’ that, in honor of his weddin’, Harry’d take at least a month off. But no; he was back amongst us in five days.
“Hello, there!” I says, shakin’ hands with him. “You didn’t take much of a trip.”
“The little girl got homesick,” says he.
“What little girl?” I says.
“My wife,” he says.
“Where was you?” I ast him.
“All over,” he says. “We went to Rockford first, and then Lake Geneva, and then Milwaukee and Kenosha.
“Which place made her homesick?” I ast.
“Oh, it wasn’t no particular place,” he says. “I guess it was when we was comin’ from Milwaukee to Kenosha; and she says, ‘Dearie, I wonder how father and mother’s gettin’ along.’ ‘Why, dearie?’ I ast her. ‘Well, dearie,’ she says, ‘you know this is the first time I ever been away from them for more’n two days, and they must be missin’ me.’ ‘Tell me the truth, dearie,’ I says to her. ‘Let’s not have no secrets from each other: Are you homesick yourself?’ So then she ’fessed up and says, ‘Well, dearie, I am, a little.’ So I says we would go straight home from Kenosha, but we better stop there, because I’d made reservations at the hotel; and besides, they got a big automobile works. She was tickled to death, and says, ‘Dearie, are you always goin’ to do what I want?’ So I told her she could just bet I was as long as I lived.”
“Do you ever call each other pet names?” I ast him.
“Sure, all the while,” he says. “I don’t think we’ve used our regular first names back and forth since we got engaged.”
“How many factories did you visit, all told?” I says.
“Oh, I couldn’t keep track o’ them all,” he says. “Besides, I don’t think neither one of us really paid any attention to them. We was thinkin’ of each other all the time.”
“Yes,” I says, “and probably figurin’ on some new pet name to spring. What was you doin’ when you wasn’t inspectin’ machinery?”
“Just walkin’ round, drinkin’ in the fresh air,” says Quinn.
“Did you drink in the breweries at Milwaukee?” says I.
“Drink!” he says. “We didn’t need no liquor; we got intoxicated just lookin’ into one another’s eyes.”
“I’ve looked in your eyes a lot o’ times,” I says, “without even feelin’ like I wanted to sing tenor.”
“You ought to see her eyes!” Quinn says. “They’d intoxicate you, all right.”
“She must have regular bourbon eyeballs,” says I. “If I ever do want a cheap jag I’ll come out and call.”
“We’d be tickled to death to have you,” he says. “Only, o’ course, not for a while. We want to be left entirely to ourselves for a few weeks.”
“I suppose that’s why you come home from Kenosha,” says I. “The townspeople there must of just bothered the life out of you.”
“Old man,” he says, “I do want you to see her. I got the sweetest wife in the world!”
“What’s your idear in tryin’ to get me dissatisfied?” I ast him.
“I don’t mean it that way,” says Quinn. “O’ course I suppose everybody likes their own wife best.”
“You’re a fine supposer,” I says. “If what you suppose was true, a whole lot o’ private detectives would starve to death.”
“Anyway,” he says, “I’ll never look at another woman.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” says I. “Just because you’ve made one girl happy is no reason all the rest o’ them should be miserable.”
The next mornin’ he was layin’ for me when I blew in.
“Old pal,” says he, “I wisht I had a job that would keep me home.”
“That makes it unanimous,” I says.
“It certainly is tough, havin’ to be away from her ten or eleven hours a day,” he says. “She’s the best little wife a man ever had!”
“If I was you,” says I, “I’d kind o’ keep that quiet. You might get overheard by some unscrup’lous homewrecker, and, first thing you know, he’d steal her.”
“He’d have to kill me first!” says Quinn.
“They’d never hang him for that,” says I.
“Besides,” he says, “they couldn’t nobody take her away from me. She’s as true as steel! She’s the best little wife a man ever had.”
Now I figured, o’ course, that this sort o’ thing would wear off. I’d had other acquaintances with the same symptoms, but they’d been cured by time, along with plenty of exercise and cuttin’ fats and starches out o’ their diet. In about a month, I thought, he’d be back to normal.
But no. May come and went and we was halfway through June, and no change for the better. For over seventy days, altogether, on an average o’ five times a
