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!

"O Mr. Pennycook, dear Mr. Pennycook" she wailed, and sought instant
refuge on his honest breast. She placed her arms around his neck and
cried, and Mr. Pennycook cried also, until his single Sunday
handkerchief was used up--whereat he pleaded dumbly with his wife for
her handkerchief--and was refused. So, like some great blubbering boy,