“Yes,” says I, “and I made arrangements to stay over there every time Bishop comes here.”
“Suit yourself,” she says, and pretended like she was asleep.
Well, the next mornin’ I got to thinkin’ over what I’d said and wonderin’ if I’d went too strong. But I couldn’t see where. This bird was a dude that had got acquainted with Bessie on the train when she was on her way here to visit us last winter. He’d infested the house all the while she was with us. He’d gave us that ten-thousand-dollar yarn and told us he made it by writin’ movin’-pitcher plays, but we never seen none o’ them advertised and never run into anybody that had heard of him.
The Missus had picked him out for Bess the minute she seen him. Bessie herself had fell for him strong. To keep ’em both from droppin’ cyanide in my gruel, I’d took him along with us to see The Love o’ Three Kings , besides buyin’ his groceries and provisions for pretty near a week and standin’ for the upkeep on the davenport where him and Bess held hands. Finally, after he’d went six days without submittin’ even circumstantial evidence that he’d ever had a dime, I bullied him into sayin’ he’d give us a party.
Then they’d been an argument over where he’d take us. He’d suggested a vaudeville show, but I jumped on that with both feet. Bessie held out for a play, but I told her they wasn’t none that I’d leave a young unmarried sister-in-law o’ mine go to.
“Oh,” Bess had said, “they must be some that’s perfectly genteel.”
“Yes,” I told her, “there is some; but they’re not worth seein’.”
So they’d ast what was left and I’d mentioned grand opera.
“They’re worse than plays, the most o’ them,” was the Wife’s cut-in.
“But all the risky parts is sang in Latin and Greek,” I’d said.