from Janesville.”
“She did!” says Mrs. Hatch. “How do you know?”
So I thought I’d kid them along.
“My uncle told me,” I says. “He used to be postmaster up there.”
“What uncle was that?” says my wife.
“He ain’t really my uncle,” I says. “We all used to call him our uncle just like all these here singers calls the one o’ them Daddy.”
“They was a lady in back o’ me,” says Mrs. Hatch, “that says Daddy didn’t appear to-night.”
“Prob’ly the Missus’ night out,” I says.
“How’d you like the Tor’ador?” says Mrs. Hatch.
“I thought she moaned in the chimney,” says I.
“It wasn’t no ‘she’,” says the Missus. “We’re talkin’ about the bull-fighter.”
“I didn’t see no bull-fight,” I says.
“It come off behind the scenes,” says the Missus.
“When was you behind the scenes?” I says.
“I wasn’t never,” says my Missus. “But that’s where it’s supposed to come off.”
“Well,” I says, “you can take it from me that it wasn’t pulled. Do you think the mayor’d stand for that stuff when he won’t even leave them stage a box fight? You two girls has got a fine idear o’ this here op’ra!”
“You know all about it, I guess,” says the Missus. “You talk French so good!”
“I talk as much French as you do,” I says. “But not nowheres near as much English, if you could call it that.”
That kept her quiet, but Mrs. Hatch buzzed all the way home, and she was scared to death that the motorman wouldn’t know where she’d been spendin’ the evenin’. And if there was anybody in the car besides me that knowed Carmen it must of been a joke to them hearin’ her chatter. It wasn’t no joke to me though. Hatch’s berth was way off from us and they didn’t nobody suspect him o’ bein’ in our party. I was standin’ right up there with her where people couldn’t help seein’ that we was together.
I didn’t want them to think she was my wife. So I kept smilin’ at her. And when it finally come time to get off I hollered out loud at Hatch and says:
“All right, Hatch! Here’s our street. Your Missus’ll keep you awake the rest o’ the way with her liberetto.”
“It can’t hurt no more than them hatpins,” he says.
Well, when the paper come the next mornin’ my Missus had to grab it up and turn right away to the place where the op’ras is wrote up. Under the article they was a list o’ the ladies and gents in the boxes and what they wore, but it didn’t say nothin’ about what the gents wore, only the ladies. Prob’ly the ladies happened to have the most comical costumes that night, but I bet if the reporters could of saw Hatch they would of gave him a page to himself.
“Is your name there?” I says to the Missus.
“O’ course not,” she says. “They wasn’t none o’ them reporters tall enough to see us. You got to set in a box to be mentioned.”
“Well,” I says, “you don’t care nothin’ about bein’ mentioned, do you?”
“O’ course not,” she says; but I could tell from how she said it that she wouldn’t run down-town and horsewhip the editor if he made a mistake and printed about she and her costume; her costume wouldn’t of et up all the space he had neither.
“How much does box seats cost?” I ast her.
“About six or seven dollars,” she says.
“Well,” I says, “let’s I and you show Hatch up.”
“What do you mean?” she says.
“I mean we should ought to return the compliment,” says I. “We should ought to give them a party right back.”
“We’d be broke for six weeks,” she says.
“Oh, we’d do it with their money like they done it with ours,” I says.
“Yes,” she says; “but if you can ever win enough from the Hatches to buy four box seats to the op’ra I’d rather spend the money on a dress.”
“Who said anything about four box seats?” I ast her.
“You did,” she says.
“You’re delirious!” I says. “Two box seats will be a plenty.”
“Who’s to set in them?” ast the Missus.
“Who do you think?” I says. “I and you is to set in them.”
“But what about the Hatches?” she says.
“They’ll set up where they was,” says I. “Hatch picked out the seats before, and if he hadn’t of wanted that altitude he’d of bought somewheres else.”
“Yes,” says the Missus, “but Mrs. Hatch won’t think we’re very polite to plant our guests in the Alps and we set down in a box.”
“But they won’t know where we’re settin’,” I says. “We’ll tell them we couldn’t get four seats together, so for them to set where they was the last time and we’re goin’ elsewheres.”
“It don’t seem fair,” says my wife.
“I should worry about bein’ fair with Hatch,” I says. “If he’s ever left with more than a dime’s worth o’ cards you got to look under the table for his hand.”
“It don’t seem fair,” says the Missus.
“You should worry!” I says.
So we ast them over the followin’ night and it looked for a minute like we was goin’ to clean up. But after that one minute my Missus began collectin’ pitcher cards again and every card Hatch drawed seemed like it was made to his measure. Well, sir, when we was through the lucky stiff was eight dollars to the good and Mrs. Hatch had about broke even.
“Do you suppose you can get them same seats?” I says.
“What seats?” says Hatch.
“For the op’ra,” I says.
“You won’t get me to no more op’ra,” says Hatch. “I don’t never go to the same show twicet.”
“It ain’t the same show, you goof!” I says. “They change the bill every day.”
“They ain’t goin’ to change this eight-dollar bill o’ mine,” he says.
“You’re a fine stiff!” I says.
“Call me anything you want to,” says Hatch, “as long as you don’t go over eight bucks’ worth.”
“Jim don’t enjoy op’ra,” says Mrs. Hatch.
“He don’t enjoy nothin’ that’s more than a nickel,” I says. “But as long as he’s goin’ to welsh on us I hope he lavishes the eight-spot where it’ll do him some good.”
“I’ll do what I want to with it,” says Hatch.
“Sure you will!” I says. “You’ll bury it. But what you should ought to do is buy two suits o’ clo’es.”
So I went out in the kitchen and split a pint one way.
But don’t think for a minute that I and the Missus ain’t goin’ to hear no more op’ra just because of a cheap stiff like him welshin’. I don’t have to win in no rummy game before I spend.