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A whisper could be heard as clearly as a cannon in the horrified silence that followed. Then, far down at the foot of the table, a slender matron in a sequined gown leaned into the ear of her neighbor, Mrs. Gussie Busch, and whispered.
"If I were Gussie," she hissed, "I'd fire the son of a bitch."
Marian Caray, a black-haired woman seated to Gussie's left at the head of the table, came up from her chair with fists clenched and dark eyes flashing. "Did I hear you call my husband a son of a bitch?" she demanded.
"No, no," came the reply. "I was talking about the stableboy."
"You are not telling the truth," snapped Marian.
"Shall we have after-dinner drinks in the living room?" Mrs. Busch interrupted sweetly.
As the guests filed into the living room a member of the Cardinal board of directors, Mark D. Eagleton, drew alongside Caray and said, "I admire your guts, Harry, but I don't know about your judgment. I hope things work out all right." Next, Robert Baskowitz Sr., a glass manufacturer who sold bottles to Anheuser-Busch, sidled up and said, "Harry, it took a lotta guts. Good luck."
"Well," said Caray to himself, "there's gotta be some good jobs around somewhere." To his wife he sighed, "Come on, Marian. Let's get out of here." Then, suddenly, he heard Busch's rasping voice bellow at him.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?"
"I'm going home. I got indigestion."