But Queen Bess went her way, throwing her tainted money back to the town as fast as the town threw it into her purse, roaring, swearing, laughing—a thumping sentimentalist, a clownish Samaritan, a Madam Aphrodite by Rube Goldberg. There are many stories that used to go the rounds. But when I read the coroner's report there was one tale in particular that started up in my head again. A mawkish tale, perhaps, and if I write it with too maudlin a slant I know who will wince the worst—Queen Bess, of course, who will sit up in her grave and, fastening a blazing eye on me, curse me out for every variety of fat-head and imbecile known to her exhaustive calendar of epithets.
Nevertheless, in memory of the set of Oscar Wilde's works presented to my roommate twelve years ago one Christmas morning by Queen Bess, and in memory of the six world-famous oaths this great lady invented—here goes. Let Bess roar in her grave. There's one thing she can't do and that's call me a liar.
* * * * *
It was Thanksgiving day and years ago and my roommate Ned and I were staring glumly over the roofs of the town.
"I've got an invitation for Thanksgiving dinner for both of us," said Ned.
"But I feel kind of doubtful about going."
I inquired what kind of invitation.
"An engraved invitation," grinned Ned. "Here it is. I'll read it to you."
He read from a white card: "You are cordially invited to attend a
Thanksgiving dinner at the home of Queen Bess, —— Street and Wabash
Avenue, at 3 o'clock. You may bring one gentleman friend."
"Why not go?" I asked.
"I'm a New Englander at heart," smiled Ned, "and Thanksgiving is a sort of meaningful holiday. Particularly when you're alone in the great and wicked city. I've inquired of some of the fellows about Queen Bess's dinner. It seems that she gives one every Thanksgiving and that they're quite a tradition or institution. I can't find out what sort they are, though. I suspect some sort of an orgy on the order of the Black Mass."
At 2 o'clock we left our room and headed for the house of Queen Bess.