The four were at the table in the private room at Barnum's. The wedding supper, simple enough, but seemingly too expensive to Saxon, had been eaten. Bert, in his hand a glass of California red wine, which the management supplied for fifty cents a bottle, was on his feet endeavoring a speech. His face was flushed; his black eyes were feverishly¹ bright.

 

“You've ben drinkin' before you met me,” Mary continued. “I can see it stickin' out all over you.”

 

“Consult an oculist², my dear,” he replied. “Bertram is himself to-night. An' he is here, arisin' to his feet to give the glad hand to his old pal³. Bill, old man, here's to you. It's how-de-do an' good-bye, I guess. You're a married man now, Bill, an' you got to keep regular hours. No more runnin' around with the boys. You gotta take care of yourself, an' get your life insured, an' take out an accident policy, an' join a buildin' an' loan society, an' a buryin' association—”

 

“Now you shut up, Bert,” Mary broke in. “You don't talk about buryin's at weddings. You oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

 

“Whoa, Mary! Back up! I said what I said because I meant it. I ain't thinkin' what Mary thinks. What I was thinkin'.... Let me tell you what I was thinkin'. I said buryin' association, didn't I? Well, it was not with the idea of castin' gloom over this merry gatherin'. Far be it....”

 

He was so evidently seeking a way out of his predicament, that Mary tossed her head triumphantly⁴. This acted as a spur to his reeling wits.

 

“Let me tell you why,” he went on. “Because, Bill, you got such an all-fired pretty wife, that's why. All the fellows is crazy over her, an' when they get to runnin' after her, what'll you be doin'? You'll be gettin' busy. And then won't you need a buryin' association to bury 'em? I just guess yes. That was the compliment to your good taste in skirts I was tryin' to come across with when Mary butted⁵ in.”

 

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