It was peevish. Coming from Pop, it amounted to an outburst, a riot, a mutiny. Such a tendency was dangerous. He must be sharply repressed at once—as a new servant must be taught her place. Mère administered the necessary rebuke, aided and abetted by the daughters. The sons did not rally to their father's defense. He was soon reduced to submission, but his apology was further irritation:
"I'm kind of rattled like. I ain't feeling as chipper as usual." "Chipper" was bad enough, but "ain't" was unendurable! They rebuked him for that and he put in another irrelevant plea: "I had a kind of sick spell at the store. I had to lay down."
"Lie down!" Beatrice corrected.
"Lie down," he accepted. "But as soon as I laid down—"
"Lay down!"
"Lay down—I had chills and shootin' pains; and I—"
"It's the weather," Mère interrupted, impatiently. "I've had a headache all day—such a headache as never was known! It seemed as if hammers were beating upon my very brain. It was—"
"I'm not feeling at all well myself," said Consuelo.
There was almost a tournament of rivalry in describing sufferings.
Pop felt as if he had wakened a sleeping hospital. He sank back ashamed of his own outburst. He rarely spoke of the few ailments he could afford. When he did it was like one of his new clerks pulling a bolt of goods from the shelf and bringing down a silken avalanche.