“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.