“I don’t know what kind of a woman Mrs. Messenger is,” I says. “But if I owned these here apartments and somebody fell behind in their rent, I wouldn’t be surprised to see the owner’s wife goin’ right over to their flat and takin’ it out o’ their trousers pocket.”
“Well,” says the Wife, “we don’t owe them no rent and that wasn’t what she called up about. It wasn’t no business call.”
“Go ahead and spill it,” I says. “My heart’s weak.”
“Well,” she says, “I was just gettin’ through with the lunch dishes and the phone rang.”
“I bet you wondered who it was,” says I.
“I thought it was Mrs. Hatch or somebody,” says the Wife. “So I run to the phone and it was Mrs. Messenger. So the first thing she says was to explain who she was—just like I didn’t know. And the next thing she ast was did I play bridge.”
“And what did you tell her?” says I.
“What do you think I’d tell her?” says the Missus. “I told her yes.”
“Wasn’t you triflin’ a little with the truth?” I ast her.
“Certainly not!” she says. “Haven’t I played twice over to Hatches’? So then she ast me if my husband played bridge, too. And I told her yes, he did.”
“What was the idear?” I says. “You know I didn’t never play it in my life.”
“I don’t know no such a thing,” she says. “For all as I know, you may play all day down to the office.”
“No,” I says; “we spend all our time down there playin’ post-office with the scrubwomen.”