However, it was good to hear from daddy and to know that—up to the time the letter was written, at least—he was all right. She went down to supper with some cheerfulness, and took the letter to read aloud, by snatches, during the meal.
A letter from Mexico was always an event in the Day household. Marty was openly desirous of emulating "Uncle Brocky" and getting out of Polktown—no matter where or how. Aunt 'Mira was inclined to wonder how the ladies of Mexico dressed and deported themselves. Uncle Jason observed:
"I've allus maintained that Broxton Day is a stubborn and foolish feller. Why! see the strain he's been under these years since he went down to that forsaken country. An' what for?"
"To make a fortune, Dad," interposed Marty. "Hi tunket! Wisht I was in his shoes."
"Money ain't ev'rything," said Uncle Jason, succinctly.
"Well, it's a hull lot," proclaimed the son.
"I reckon that's so, Jason," Aunt Almira agreed. "It's his money makin' that leaves Janice so comfterble here. And her automobile——"
"Oh, shucks! Is money wuth life?" demanded Mr. Day. "What good will money be to him if he's stood up against one o' them dough walls and shot at by a lot of slantindicular-eyed heathen?"
"Hoo!" shouted Marty. "The Mexicans ain't slant-eyed like Chinamen and
Japs."
"And they ain't heathen," added Aunt Almira. "They don't bow down to figgers of wood and stone."