“She is making one last grand play,” said they.
One day of gloom did Mrs. Hummel pass in Hummel’s bedroom, arguing, pleading. To Hummel, he and the whole town were gone to the devil.
“No! Never!” cried he, receiving more duns, and shaken.
But at last toward night he arose and, haunted, went to the furniture store. In the window was the bedroom set, and over it a sign, “The prize for Mrs. Stoker’s euchre-party.” Staring, the emaciated Hummel lost his soul.
“Would it cover the bill,” he whispered, hoarsely, in the dealer’s back room, “if we won it?”
“About,” mused the dealer; “Hummel, since it’s you. I’d call it square.”
And Hummel returned, unsteady on his feet.
Once again the cottage of the Corinthian pillars shone with the brilliancy of a euchre evening. Stoker was making a high play to-night to keep his footing with the men. Mrs. Stoker had rouged to hide the pallor of her cheeks. The house distanced all previous efforts in its decorations, the refreshments were beyond the experience of the most high-rolling citizen of the town.
Behold, in came Mrs. Hummel, her blood up.