Ma Pettengill

Ma Pettengill

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Title: Ma Pettengill
Author: Harry Leon Wilson
Release Date: December 13, 2004 [eBook #14348]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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PETTENGILL***
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MA PETTENGILL
by

HARRY LEON WILSON
Author of Bunker Bean, Ruggles of Red Gap, Somewhere in Red Gap,
etc.
1919

TO WILLIAM EUGENE LEWIS

CONTENTS
I. MA PETTENGILL AND THE ANIMAL KINGDOM
II. A LOVE STORY
III. RED GAP AND THE BIG-LEAGUE STUFF
IV. VENDETTA
V. ONE ARROWHEAD DAY
VI. THE PORCH WREN
VII. CHANGE OF VENUS
VIII. CAN HAPPEN!
IX. THE TAKER-UP
X. AS TO HERMAN WAGNER
XI. CURLS

I

MA PETTENGILL AND THE ANIMAL KINGDOM
From the Arrowhead corrals I strolled up the poplar-bordered lane that
leads past the bunk house to the castle of the ranch's chatelaine. It was a
still Sunday afternoon--the placid interlude, on a day of rest, between
the chores of the morning and those of evening. But the calm was for
the ear alone. To the eye certain activities, silent but swift, were under
way. On the shaded side piazza of the ranch house I could discern my
hostess, Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill; she sat erect, even in a
rocking-chair, and knitted. On the kitchen steps, full in the westering
sun, sat the Chinese chef of the Arrowhead, and knitted--a yellow,
smoothly running automaton. On a shaded bench by the spring house, a
plaid golfing cap pushed back from one-half the amazing area of his
bare pate, sat the aged chore-boy, Boogles, and knitted. The ranch was
on a war basis.
And more: As I came abreast of the bunk house the Sabbath calm was
punctured by the tart and careless speech of Sandy Sawtelle, a top rider
of the Arrowhead, for he, too, was knitting, or had been. On a stool
outside the doorway he held up an unfinished thing before his grieved
eyes and devoutly wished it in the place of punishment of the wicked
dead. The sincere passion of his tones not only arrested my steps but
lured through the open doorway the languorous and yawning Buck
Devine, who hung over the worker with disrespectful attention. I joined
the pair. To Buck's query, voiced in a key of feigned mirth, Sandy said
with simple dignity that it was going to be a darned good sweater for
the boys in the trenches. Mr. Devine offered to bet his head that it
wasn't going to be anything at all--at least nothing any one would want
round a trench. Mr. Sawtelle ignored the wager and asked me if I knew
how to do this here, now, casting off. I did not.
"I better sneak round and ask the Chink," said Sandy. "He's the star
knitter on the place."
We walked on together, seemingly deaf to certain laboured pleasantries
of Mr. Devine concerning a red-headed cow-puncher that had got
rejected for fighting because his feet was flat and would now most
likely get rejected for knitting because his head was flat. By way of

covering the hearty laughter of Mr. Devine at his own wit I asked why
Sandy should not consult his employer rather than her cook.
With his ball of brown wool, his needles and his work carried tenderly
before him Sandy explained, with some embarrassment as it seemed,
that the madam was a good knitter, all right, all right, but she was an
awful bitter-spoken lady when any little thing about the place didn't go
just right, making a mountain out of a mole hill, and crying over spilt
milk, and always coming back to the same old subject, and so forth, till
you'd think she couldn't talk about anything else, and had one foot in
the poorhouse, and couldn't take a joke, and all like that. I could believe
it or not, but that was the simple facts of the matter when all was said
and done. And the Chink was only too glad to show off how smart he
was with a pair of needles.
This not only explained nothing but suggested that there might indeed
be something to explain. And it was Sandy's employer after all who
resolved his woolen difficulty. She called to him as he would have left
me for the path to the kitchen door:
"You bring that right here!"
It was the tone of one born to command,