family—not even if they was crazy about rummy and paid all their bills. And when it come to Bishop and Bess, well, they was just as welcome to my home as Villa and all the little Villains.
It wasn’t just Bishop, with his quaint habit o’ never havin’ car fare. Bess, in her way, was as much of a liability. You couldn’t look at her without a slight relapse. She had two complexions— a.m. and p.m. The p.m. wasn’t so bad, but she could of put the other in her vanity box for a mirror. Her nose curved a little away from the batsman and wasn’t no wider than a Julienne potato, and yet it had to draw in to get between her eyes. Her teeth was real pretty and she always kept her lips ajar. But the baseball reporters named Matty’s favorite delivery after her chin, and from there down the curves was taboo.
Where she made a hit with Bishop was laughin’ at everything he pulled—that is, he thought she was laughin’. The fact was that she was snatchin’ the chance to show more o’ them teeth. They wasn’t no use showin’ ’em to me; so I didn’t get laughs from her on my stuff, only when he or some other stranger was round. And if my stuff wasn’t funnier than Bishop’s I’ll lay down my life for Austria.
As a general rule, I don’t think a man is justified in interferin’ with other people’s hymeneal intentions, but it’s different when the said intentions is goin’ to make your own home a hell.
It was up to me to institute proceedin’s that would check the flight o’ these two cooin’ doves before their wings took ’em to Crown Point in a yellow flivver.
And I seen my duty all the more clear when the pair come home from the ball game the day after Bessie’s arrival, and not only told me that the White Sox got another trimmin’ but laughed when they said it.
“Well, Bishop,” I says when we set down to supper, “how many six-reelers are you turnin’ out a day?”