A HUSBAND FOR MY WIFE
By WILLIAM W. STUART
Illustrated by BURNS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine August 1960.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I admit it—he beat my time. But my day is coming.
Any minute now time is about to run out on him!
Soon, very soon now, the time will come for me to meet my wife'shusband. I can hardly wait. Every dog has his day and Professor ThurlowBenjamin has just about had it. Every day has its dog, too, and I amgoing to return to him with full five years' interest the bad time hegave to me. The dog.
Dog? Look, he stole my girl not once but twice. The second time he, youmight say, took his time to beat my time—and left me behind to thebad time that belonged to him. Benji is—or he was and he will be—ascientifically sneaky, two-timing dog, and a dog's life is what he gaveme. But now, after nearly five years, time is on my side. He will getwhat, minute by minute, is coming to him not soon enough, but soon.
Benji—Professor Thurlow Benjamin—was my oldest, closest friend. Iwas his. We hated each other dearly in the way that only two boyhoodpals can and by chance or mischance that quality of bitter-friendly,boyish rivalry never left our relationship. Why? A woman, naturally.
The first time we met, he was a tall, gangling, red-headed, big-nosedkid of nine. I, Bull (for Boulard) Benton, was shorter, stockier,heavier. Maybe not handsome exactly, but clean cut, very clean cut.Benji knocked a chip off my shoulder and I knocked his block off, butnot without collecting a few lumps doing it. From then on, we foughttogether against anyone else. When no one else was handy, we foughteach other. And naturally we each wanted what the other had.
After high school, we roomed together at Burnington University rightthere in our home town, Belt City. Benji was a brain, a scholar. I wasan athlete. So he broke nearly every bone in his body trying to be asix-foot-three, one-hundred-and-thirty-nine-pound scatback, while Inearly sprained a brain that was deep, definitely deep, but maybe notquite as quick on its feet as some, trying for scholarship.
The last year and a half at the university, the competition betweenus narrowed down to a battle for Vera Milston, old Dean Milston'sstatuesque daughter. That was all a mistake. I can see it now. So canBenji. But not then.
Dean Milston was the dourest, sourest, meanest old tyrant ever tosuspend a football captain for a couple of unimportant "D"s. Oneafternoon in junior year at basketball practice—Benji was out,dragging around a cast—Jocko Bunter bet me ten I didn't have thenerve to date the dean's daughter. Well, hell, I'd seen her around,visiting the dean as regularly as I had to. She was a lot of girl.Tall, honey-blonde—a little on the regal, commanding side, and maybeher lips were a mite set over a chin that the old man should have keptto himself—but there are times when a young man doesn't analyze thedetails as carefully as he might. She was built like nothing I hadtackled all fall.
So I took a chance, got a date, won ten, and that might and shouldhave been that. She had a way of saying "No!" that made me think ofher father. But, the thing was, Benji didn't know about the bet. Idated her once. So he had to date her twice. Again, I didn't analyze. Ijumped to the conclusion Benji had the hots for her and went to workto cut him out.
That kept us busy the n