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Updated: June 13, 2025
To my pleased surprise this unbelievable little farm proved to be our next stopping place. At its gate Ma Pettengill dismounted, eased the cinch of her saddle and tied her horse to the hitching rack. I did likewise by the one-time cinch binder. "Now," I wondered, "what devastating bomb shall we hurl into this flower-spiced Arcady?
Ma Pettengill had ridden off at dawn; and, rather than eat luncheon in solitary state, I joined her retainers for the meal in the big kitchen, which is one of my prized privileges. A dozen of us sat at the long oilcloth-covered table and assuaged the more urgent pangs of hunger in a haste that was speechless and far from hygienic.
Something laughable, I bet like it would be 'Madam Onion Blossom! or something comical, just to give her a good laugh after her hard day." Such is Cousin Egbert, and ever will be. And Genevieve May, having took up things all round the circle, is now back to the dance. It had been a toilsome day for Ma Pettengill and me.
He swears if he can't keep you he'll never have another man, and you know yourself what that means in his case and Mrs. Pettengill saying she means to employ you herself if we let you go. Heaven knows what the poor woman can be thinking of! Oh, it's awful and everything was going so beautifully. Of course Charles would simply never be brought to accept an apology "
Ma Pettengill said that if Uncle Henry was aiming to put it on the market in quantity production he had ought to name it the Stingaree brand, because it was sure some stuff, making for malevolence even to the lengths of matricide, if that's what killing your mother is called.
She has had it papered and painted, and moved to another street to be near her dearest girl friend so as to make visiting convenient, and she has had the front yard fixed with flowers, particularly those he likes, and has had a door-plate put on the castle door with a name on it, CLARENCE PETTENGILL, in large letters.
No wonder strong men forget the simple act of manslaughter they come there to achieve and sit sullenly down to be pandered to by him who was erst their torturer. On a morning in late May, when I had been invited to fare abroad with my hostess, Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill who would breakfast in her own apartment I joined this assemblage of thwarted murderers as they doggedly ate.
So, right away, I said to Ma Pettengill, who by this time had a lot of bills and papers and ledgers and stuff out on her desk, and was talking hotly to all of them I said to her that there was nearly half a bottle of Uncle Henry's wine left, his rare old grape wine laid down well over a month ago; so she had better toss off a foamy beaker of it yes, it still foamed and answer me a few questions.
It evoked the first cheerful sound I had heard that day: Ma Pettengill laughed heartily. "That old hair trunk never had the jazz to be any cinch binder. Who told you he was?" I named names all I could remember. Almost everyone on the ranch had passed me the friendly warning, and never had I saddled the brute without a thrill. "Sure! Them chuckleheads always got to tell everybody something.
"You reckon we better both leave the place at once?" suggested Mrs. Dave. "That's so," said Dave brightly. "Mebbe I " "Nonsense!" boomed Ma Pettengill, dispelling his brightness. "Addie can drop you at Snell's when she comes over to Arrowhead. Now that's settled!" And we rode off as unvoiced expostulations were gathering.
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