"Believe it? Believe what? Tell me, Blossom darling, in Heaven's name, tell me."
"Pershing," she sobbed in a heart-broken crescendo, "Pershing has become a mother!"
Her sobs shook her.
"And they're all mungles," she cried, "all nine of them."
Thunderclouds festooned the usually mild forehead of Mr. Pottle next morning. He was inclined to be sarcastic.
"Fifty dollars per pup, eh?" he said. "Fifty dollars per pup, eh?"
"Don't, Ambrose," his wife begged. "I can't stand it. To think with eyes like that Pershing should deceive me."
"Pershing?" snorted Mr. Pottle so violently the toast hopped from the toaster. "Pershing? Not now. Violet! Violet! Violet!"
Mrs. Pottle looked meek.