Mrs. Collins’ prize was a chafin’ dish.
“I don’t blame Mrs. Garrett for bein’ so crazy to win it,” I says to her when they couldn’t nobody hear. “Her and Garrett both must get hungry along about nine or ten p.m. ”
“I hate to take it,” says Mrs. Collins.
“I wouldn’t feel that way,” I says. “I guess Mrs. Garrett will chafe enough without it.”
When we was ready to go I shook hands with the host and hostess and says I was sorry if I’d pulled a boner.
“It was to be expected,” says Mrs. Garrett.
“Yes,” I says; “a man’s liable to do most anything when he’s starvin’ to death.”
The Messengers and Collinses was a little ways ahead of us on the stairs and I wanted we should hurry and catch up with ’em.
“You let ’em go!” says the Missus. “You’ve spoiled everything now without doin’ nothin’ more. Every time you talk you insult somebody.”
“I ain’t goin’ to insult them,” I says. “I’m just goin’ to ask ’em to go down to the corner and have a drink.”
“You are not!” she says.
But she’s just as good a prophet as she is a bridge player. They wouldn’t go along, though, sayin’ it was late and they wanted to get to bed.