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?”
TOMASO AND ME
By Graham Clark
I can’t talk good American way. In the carpet factory where I worked the Polacks, Sheenies, and Wops talked any old way, and I learnt to say American like them. But maybe I talk good enough to tell about Tomaso and me.