quartette from Bakersfield--they're real good, too. Playin' in a
theater up there, but I engaged to get 'em back in time for the evenin'
performance on a special train--so they said they'd come. An' I've
ordered an elegant coffin, the best they had in stock, with a floral
piece from Sam Singer an' his squaw an' a piller o' white carnations
with 'Mother' in violets--from you, understand? Everything the best,
spick an' span an' no cost to the estate. Compliments o' Harley P.
Hennage, Miss Donna." He paused and rubbed his hairy freckled hands
together in an embarrassed manner. "I hope you won't think I'm actin'
forward, because I ain't one o' the presumin' kind. I just wanted to do
somethin' to help out because--your mother was a very lovely lady.
Three times a day for ten years she give me my change an' there never
was a time when she didn't have a decent, kindly word for me--the only
good woman in this town that'd look at me--God bless her! Mum's the
word, Miss Donnie. Don't let nobody know I did it, because it'd hurt
your reputation. And don't tell Mrs. Pennycook! Pennycook's a clean,
decent old sport, but look out for the missus!" Here Mr. Hennage
lowered his voice, glanced cautiously around to make certain that he
would not be overheard by Mrs. Pennycook, leaned further in the window
and improvising a megaphone with his hands, whispered hoarsely the
damning words: "She _talks!_"

Donna nodded. For a long time she had suspected Mrs. Pennycook of this
very practice.

"I've got to light out now" Mr. Hennage continued. "Folks'll wonder if
they see _me_ hangin' around here. But before I go I want to tell
you somethin'. Your mother was a-countin' out my change yesterday when
she got took. She thought she was goin' then on account o' the pain
bein' sharper than common, an' she cries out: 'Donnie! Donnie! My baby,