Before they turned, a harrowing procession issued from the
carriage-house doors beneath them. Herman came first, hurriedly
completing a temporary security in Verman's trousers. Verman
followed, after a little reluctance that departed coincidentally
with some inspiriting words from the rear. He crossed the alley
hastily, and his Mammy stalked behind, using constant eloquence
and a frequent lath. They went into the small house across the
way and closed the door.
Then Sam turned to Penrod.
"Penrod," he said thoughtfully, "was it on account of
fortygraphing in the jungle you wanted to keep that cat?"
"No; that was a mighty fine-blooded cat. We'd of made some
money."
Sam jeered.
"You mean when we'd sell tickets to look at it in its cage?"
Penrod shook his head, and if Gipsy could have overheard and
understood his reply, that atrabilious spirit, almost broken by
the events of the day, might have considered this last blow the
most overwhelming of all.
"No," said Penrod; "when she had kittens."
CHAPTER XV. A MODEL LETTER TO A FRIEND
On Monday morning Penrod's faith in the coming of another
Saturday was flaccid and lustreless.
Pages:
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205