§ 238 One of Those Nature-Faking Yarns
A gentleman of social habits came home one evening to be confronted by a wife bristling with indignation. No sooner had he opened the front door of the apartment than she fired a blast at him.
“Why, my dear,” he said, “what’s the matter?”
“Matter enough,” she answered. “I thought you told me that you were going down to Belmont track yesterday afternoon with a party of men!”
“That’s right,” he said, “what of it?”
“Then perhaps you can explain this,” she said. “This morning I sent the suit you wore yesterday out to be pressed. But first I went through the pockets and in one of the pockets I found a card and on the card was written in your handwriting: ‘Evelyn, 2161 Fitzroy.’ Now then, what does this mean?”
Without a moment’s hesitation the husband answered.
“My dear child,” he said soothingly, “the thing is simplicity itself. ‘Evelyn’ is the name of a racehorse—a friend gave me a tip on her. And ‘2161’ were the odds on her for first and second place. ‘Fitzroy’ is the name of the jockey. Surely you’ve heard of Fitzroy, the famous jockey? Now then, aren’t you ashamed that you suspected me?”
The lady admitted that she might have been a bit hasty in jumping at conclusions. She dried her tears and peace descended upon the household.
On the following evening the husband entered the flat at peace with the world and whistling a merry catch. An ominous silence greeted him.
“Hello, dearie!” he hailed. “How do you feel?”
“I’m quite all right, considering,” answered his wife frigidly.
“Any mail here for me?”
“You might look and see.”
“Anybody drop in to-day?”
“No.”
“Has anything happened at all?”
“Well,” she said, “about three o’clock this afternoon your racehorse called up and asked for you.”