Mr. Goodman, who in reality cared not a rush how animals were treated, yet was ambitious to be known as a citizen of influence, bowed and replied: “I feel highly honored, sir, and am willing to become your president.” Then, filling anew the wine-glasses, he called out:
“Here is success and prosperity to—”
“Flywheel Bob,” interrupted Daisy. “For, pa, he is a little boy, isn’t he? A little boy making pennies?”
Mr. Goodman frowned, while the child laughed and Rover barked. But presently the toast to the society was duly honored, after which the visitor proceeded to speak of several cruel sports which he hoped would soon be put a stop to. “Turkey-matches on Thanksgiving day must be legislated against, Mr. President.” Mr. President bowed and waved his hand. “And there is talk, sir, of introducing fox-chases, as in England. This sport must likewise be prevented by law.” Another bow and wave of the hand.
“Well, pa, you sha’n’t stop me killing flies; for flies plague Rover,” put in Daisy, with a malicious twinkle in her eye.
Again the poodle barked. Then, clapping her hands, off she flew to get her hat and gloves, leaving the gentlemen smiling at this childish remark.
“My darling,” said Mr. Goodman a quarter of an hour later, as they were driving down Fifth Avenue together—“my darling, I have been placed at the head of another society—a society to prevent cruelty to animals.”
“I am glad,” replied Daisy, looking up in his face. “Everybody likes you, pa; don’t they?”
Daisy, let us here observe, was
the rich man’s only child. His wife was dead; but whenever he gazed upon the little fairy at this moment seated beside him, he seemed to behold his dear Margaret anew: the same black eyes, the same wilful, imperious, yet withal tenderly affectionate ways. No wonder that Richard Goodman idolized his daughter. To no other living being did he unbend, did his heart ever quicken.