THE IMPULSIVE MR. JIGGS
By Roger Brown
Marathon Jiggs approached the day-clerk.
“Is Mr. George Jones here?” he inquired.
“He is registered here, but he’s out at present,” replied the clerk. “Would you like to leave any message?”
“Thank you, I believe I will,” said Jiggs, reaching for the hotel stationery. He hastily scribbled a note, left it, sans envelope, at the desk, and took his departure.
About an hour later a large, overbearing woman of the superdreadnought type steamed majestically to the desk, a small and timid-looking individual in her wake. After taking the mail that had accumulated in the box she stalked imposingly to the elevator, accompanied by the timid person, who, by his conduct, appeared to be her husband.
When the couple got to their room Mrs. George Jones sat down and scanned the family mail. As she read, the colour flooded her expansive face like a sunset, then receded, leaving her chalky white with rage. Her unfortunate spouse cowered in a corner.
Rising to her feet in all the majesty of her five-feet-eleven, she thrust a note into Jones’s hand. “Read that!” she commanded hoarsely.
With amazement and fear alternately expressed in his weak countenance, Jones read the following:
“Dear George:
Why don’t you let me know when you get to town? I expected you yesterday. Call me up, the same old number, and we will have a time to-night.
“Yours as ever,
“Mary.”
“You roué!” stormed Mrs. Jones. “I shall institute divorce proceedings immediately. To think you have been leading a double life! You may expect a visit from my lawyer!” The door slammed behind her as Jones sank dazedly into a chair.
As she flounced out the door of the hotel Marathon Jiggs again came to the desk. “Did Mr. Jones get my note?” he asked.
“No, but his wife did,” replied the clerk.
“His wife?” came in gasp from Jiggs. “His wife? Who—let me see the register, please.”
He hastily scanned the list of guests until he came to Jones’s name. “‘Mr. George K. Jones and wife, Chicago, Illinois,’” he read incredulously, “and I thought it was George H. Jones of Pittsburg. What if his wife—I must see him immediately,” and he hurried to the elevator.
As Jones sat in his room, bewildered at the events of the past hour, a knock startled him out of his reverie. “Come in!” he called uneasily, expecting his wife’s lawyer to appear. The sight of the homely but benevolent face of Jiggs was a distinct relief.
“My name is Jiggs,” stated the caller—“Marathon Jiggs, nicknamed ‘Mary’ at the university. I left a note for a friend of mine whom I thought was staying here, named George H. Jones. I understand that your wife got it by mistake. It is quite possible that she read it and misunderstand the matter; therefore I have come to clear it up, if such is the case, and exonerate you.”
Jones drew up a chair. “Sit down,” he said, “and we will talk this over. My wife has just gone out to see a lawyer about a divorce. You have already done me a favour; now what,” taking out a checkbook, “will you take to keep quiet about the facts?”