“I only got one objection left,” I says. “How am I goin’ to get by at a bridge party when I haven’t no idear how many cards to deal?”
“I guess you can learn if I learnt,” she says. “You’re always talkin’ about what a swell card player you are. And besides, you’ve played w’ist, and they ain’t hardly any difference.”
“And the next party is next Tuesday night?” I says.
“Yes,” says the Missus, “at Mrs. Garrett’s, the best player in the club, and one o’ the smartest women in Chicago, Mrs. Messenger says. She lives in the same buildin’ with the Messengers. And they’s dinner first and then we play bridge all evenin’.”
“And maybe,” I says, “before the evenin’s over, I’ll find out what’s trumps.”
“You’ll know all about the game before that,” she says. “Right after supper we’ll get out the cards and I’ll show you.”
So right after supper she got out the cards and begun to show me. But about all as I learnt was one thing, and that was that if I died without no insurance, the Missus would stand a better show o’ supportin’ herself by umpirin’ baseball in the National League than by teachin’ in a bridge-w’ist university. She knew everything except how much the different suits counted, and how many points was in a game, and what honors meant, and who done the first biddin’, and how much to bid on what.
After about an hour of it I says:
“I can see you got this thing mastered, but you’re like a whole lot of other people that knows somethin’ perfect themselves but can’t learn it to nobody else.”
“No,” she says; “I got to admit that I don’t know as much as I thought I did. I didn’t have no trouble when I was playin’ with Mrs. Hatch and