It was a Friday evenin’ about three weeks ago when I come home and found the Wife quaverin’ with excitement.
“Who do you think called up?” she ast me.
“I got no idear,” I says.
“Guess!” says she.
So I had to guess.
“Josephus Daniels,” I says. “Or Henry Ford. Or maybe it was that guy with the scar on his lip that you thought was smilin’ at you the other day.”
“You couldn’t never guess,” she says. “It was Mrs. Messenger.”
“Which one?” I ast her. “You can’t mean Mrs. A. D. T. Messenger.”
“If you’re so cute I won’t tell you nothin’ about it,” says she.
“Don’t make no rash threats,” I says. “You’re goin’ to tell me some time and they’s no use makin’ yourself sick by tryin’ to hold it in.”
“You know very well what Mrs. Messenger I mean,” she says. “It was Mrs. Robert Messenger that’s husband owns this buildin’ and the one at the corner, where they live at.”
“Haven’t you paid the rent?” I says.
“Do you think a woman like Mrs. Messenger would be buttin’ into her husband’s business?” says the Missus.