“Old man,” he says, “I do want you to see her. I got the sweetest wife in the world!”
“What’s your idear in tryin’ to get me dissatisfied?” I ast him.
“I don’t mean it that way,” says Quinn. “O’ course I suppose everybody likes their own wife best.”
“You’re a fine supposer,” I says. “If what you suppose was true, a whole lot o’ private detectives would starve to death.”
“Anyway,” he says, “I’ll never look at another woman.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” says I. “Just because you’ve made one girl happy is no reason all the rest o’ them should be miserable.”
The next mornin’ he was layin’ for me when I blew in.
“Old pal,” says he, “I wisht I had a job that would keep me home.”
“That makes it unanimous,” I says.
“It certainly is tough, havin’ to be away from her ten or eleven hours a day,” he says. “She’s the best little wife a man ever had!”
“If I was you,” says I, “I’d kind o’ keep that quiet. You might get overheard by some unscrup’lous homewrecker, and, first thing you know, he’d steal her.”
“He’d have to kill me first!” says Quinn.
“They’d never hang him for that,” says I.
“Besides,” he says, “they couldn’t nobody take her away from me. She’s as true as steel! She’s the best little wife a man ever had.”