“Daniel! Come!”
Daniel! At the mention of his Christian name Mr. Pennycook quivered. He knew he was in for it now, but he didn't care. It occurred to him that he might as well, to quote a homely proverb, “be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.” He had visited the Hat Ranch to tender aid and sympathy, and despite the impending visitation of his wife's wrath he resolved to be reckless for once and deliver the goods in bulk.
“Your poor mother was a sensible woman, Donnie girl,” he told the orphan, “an' you're a dutiful daughter to follow out her last wishes under these—er—deplorable circumstances—er—er—I mean it's a terrible hard thing to lose your mother, Donnie, an'—damme, Donnie, I'm sorry. 'Pon my word, I'm sorry.”
Mrs. Pennycook's lips moved, and while no sound issued therefrom, yet did Dan Pennycook, out of his many years of marital submission, comprehend the unspoken sentence:
“Dan Pennycook, you're a fool!”
“Ya-a-h” growled Mr. Pennycook, thoroughly aroused now and striving to appear belligerent. His wife silenced him with a look; then turned to Donna. She had a duty to perform. She was a great woman for “principle” and the performance of what she conceived to be her duty. She was a well-meaning but misguided person ordinarily, who loved a fight with her own family on the broad general ground that it denoted firmness of character. Mrs. Pennycook was so long on virtue and character herself that half her life was spent disposing of a portion of these attributes to the less fortunate members of her household.
She entered now upon a calm yet stern discussion of the perfectly impossible proceeding of making a private cemetery out of one's back yard; but Mr. Pennycook had recovered his poise and decided that here was one of those rare occasions when it behooved him to declare himself—by the way, a very rare proceeding with Mr. Pennycook, he being known in San Pasqual as the original Mr. Henpeck.
“Mrs. Pennycook,” he thundered, “you will please 'tend to your own business, ma'am. Donnie, my dear, I'm goin' to wire Los Angeles an' order up a heap o' big red roses on 25—damme, Mrs. Pennycook, what the devil are you lookin' at, ma'am?”
“Nothing” she retorted, although it is a fact that had she been Medusa a singularly life-like replica of Dan Pennycook in concrete might have been produced, upon which the posterity of San Pasqual might gaze and be warned of the dangers attendant upon mating with the Mrs. Pennycooks of this world.
Donna commenced to cry. Mr. Pennycook's sympathy, albeit checked and moderated to a great extent by the presence of his wife, was, nevertheless, the most genuine sample of that rare commodity which she had received up to that moment. His action had been so—brave—so spontaneous—he knew—he understood; Dan Pennycook had a soul. And besides he was going to wire for some red roses—and O, how scarce were red roses in San Pasqual!