In the final neck-and-neck sprint to the goal, Mrs. Stoker, gone to pieces, wretched, was distanced; Mrs. Botts carried off the portières; the party broke up, and Mrs. Hummel’s night of sinful conquering passed into history.
When Hummel returned, the news emaciated him. He went to bed and lay ill for a week, and nobody threw out the life line to him. Nay, even the bed he lay on came near to being snatched from under him. And now, with the boom trembling on the verge of collapse, with everybody’s contracts coming due, bills began to rain upon the preacher’s head.
“Jennie,” groaned he, “you have ruined me. See, they haven’t paid my salary, and the furniture man is mad. We will be cast into the street!”
Then there fell into Mrs. Hummel’s hands an envelope—“Mrs. Stoker—at home—Friday night—euchre!”
“Why,” cried Mrs. Wheelock, bursting in with Mrs. Botts, “everybody knows that the Stokers are on the brink of ruin. They say he is fighting like mad to keep his head up—maybe to keep out of jail! This is their final fling. And everybody has learned about her prize. Guess what it is!”
“And guess what it cost!” shouted Mrs. Botts.
“I wouldn’t be un-Christian about it,” declared Jennie, “but I do think swindlers had better hide their heads. What is the thing, then, and what does it cost?”
There was an impressive hush.
“A bedroom set worth two hundred! And she’s let everybody know that she paid cash down for it.”
They all gazed at one another, the fire of gaming in their eyes.