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Updated: June 13, 2025
At eight o'clock I sleepily wondered how I should sleep. And thus wondering, I marvelled at the indifference to the racket of my hostess, Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill. Through dinner and now as she read a San Francisco newspaper she had betrayed no consciousness of it. She read her paper and from time to time she chuckled. "How do you like it?" I demanded, referring to the monstrous din.
Saturday's Recorder, in its advance notice of the recital, announced that the Belknap-Jacksons of Boston and Red Gap would entertain the artist on the following afternoon at their palatial home in the Pettengill addition, where a select few of the North Side set had been invited to meet him. Belknap-Jackson himself was as a man uplifted.
"Pete was telling me about him just I mean during his lunch hour; but he had to go to work again just at the beginning of something that sounded good about the time he was going to kill a bright lawyer. What was that?" The glass was drained and Ma Pettengill eyed the inconsiderable remains of the ham with something like repugnance.
Lysander John Pettengill from the fringe of cottonwoods, jolting a tired horse toward me over the flat. "Come have some tea," she cordially boomed as she passed. I returned uncertainly. Tea? Yes. But However, the door would be shut and the Asiatic probably diverted. As I came again to the rear of the ranch house Mrs.
We agreed that the reticence of losers is due to something basic in human nature; a determination of the noblest sort to disregard failure that is, Ma Pettengill said you couldn't expect everything of human nature when it had its earrings in, and I agreed in as few words as would suffice. I had suddenly become aware that the woman was holding something back.
Whereupon the lady drew herself up and remarked in the clipped accent of a parrot: "No, sir; it's a carboniferous trilobite of the Upper Silurian." This, indeed, piqued me. It made a difference. I said was it possible? Mrs. Pettengill said it was worse than possible; it was inevitable.
Then he was out; and a moment later the two-stringed fiddle whined a little song through two closed doors. I said something acute and original about the ingrained fatalism of the Oriental races. Ma Pettengill laid down her paper, put aside her glasses, and said, yes, Chinee one fatal race; feeling fatal thataway was what made 'em such good help. Because why?
He wrote: "When you failed in consequence of the Jerome clock notes, I felt that your creditors were dealing hard with you; that they should have let you up and give you a chance, and they would have fared better, and I wish I was a creditor, so as to show what I would do." These offers, both from Mr. Williams and Mr. Pettengill, Barnum felt obliged to decline. Mr.
Again for the fourth time I cast, more from habit than hope. Then ensued that terrific rush from the pool's lucent depths "Yes, sir; you wouldn't need no two guesses for what she'd wear at a grand costume ball of the Allied nations not if you knew her like I do." This was Ma Pettengill, who had stripped a Sunday paper from the great city to its society page.
Lysander John Pettengill, was leading the ideal life on her country place; and, by Jove! he often thought of doing the same thing himself get a nice little spot in this beautiful country, with some green meadows, and have bands of large handsome cattle strolling about in the sunlight, so he could forget the world and its strife in the same idyllic peace she must be finding.
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