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If men seen their wives play poker previous to the nuptial bonds they’d be a large fallin’ off in marryin’ and givin’ in marriage. Speakin’ for myself personally, the Missus would still be livin’ in her parental mansion o’ concrete buildin’ blocks at Wabash if I’d knew in advance that her and George W. Hoyle was such perfect strangers. And I and all my male friends would be callin’ each other up, from noon on, to decide on the most advantageous location to start gettin’ paralyzed that night.

The best female poker player I know is Mrs. Hatch. She don’t never come into a pot and she never antes without a court order. Say she buys two dollars’ worth o’ dime chips at the beginnin’ o’ the evenin’. Our game generally ’most always runs about four hours. So when it comes time for the lettuce sandwiches she’s still got $1.60 in front of her yet and ain’t mad at nobody.

So Hatch has got it all over the rest of his gentlemen friends. He can generally keep his mind on the game, instead o’ puzzlin’ all evenin’ about the most cuttin’ thing he can say to his wife on the way home.

I’ve often said to the Missus: “If you can’t set over on one corner o’ the lounge and do your mendin’, if you think you must take a hand, why don’t you play like Mrs. Hatch?”

“Play!” she says. “She don’t play! She just sets there like a dummy.”

“Well,” I says, “I’d rather have a dummy wife that costs me forty cents an evenin’ than a female philanthropist that thinks every night is Christmas and the rest o’ the people round the table is the slums.”

“But she don’t have no fun,” the Missus says.