Dannys Own Story | Page 3

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DANNY'S OWN STORY BY
DON MARQUIS
TO MY WIFE

CHAPTER I
HOW I come not to have a last name is a question that has always had
more or less aggervation mixed up with it. I might of had one jest as
well as not if Old Hank Walters hadn't been so all-fired, infernal
bull-headed about things in gineral, and his wife Elmira a blame sight
worse, and both of em ready to row at a minute's notice and stick to it
forevermore.
Hank, he was considerable of a lusher. One Saturday night, when he
come home from the vil- lage in his usual fix, he stumbled over a
basket that was setting on his front steps. Then he got up and drawed
back his foot unsteady to kick it plumb into kingdom come. Jest then he
hearn Elmira opening the door behind him, and he turned his head
sudden. But the kick was already started into the air, and when he turns
he can't stop it. And so Hank gets twisted and falls down and steps on
himself. That basket lets out a yowl.
"It's kittens," says Hank, still setting down and staring at that there
basket. All of which, you understand, I am a-telling you from hearsay,

as the lawyers always asts you in court.
Elmira, she sings out:
"Kittens, nothing! It's a baby!"
And she opens the basket and looks in and it was me.
"Hennerey Walters," she says -- picking me up, and shaking me at him
like I was a crime, "Hen- nerey Walters, where did you get this here
baby?" She always calls him Hennerey when she is getting ready to
give him fits.
Hank, he scratches his head, for he's kind o' confuddled, and thinks
mebby he really has brought this basket with him. He tries to think of
all the places he has been that night. But he can't think of any place but
Bill Nolan's saloon. So he says:
"Elmira, honest, I ain't had but one drink all day." And then he kind o'
rouses up a little bit, and gets surprised and says:
"That a BABY you got there, Elmira?" And then he says, dignified: "So
fur as that's consarned, Elmira, where did YOU get that there baby?"
She looks at him, and she sees he don't really know where I come from.
Old Hank mostly was truth- ful when lickered up, fur that matter, and
she knowed it, fur he couldn't think up no lies excepting a gineral
denial when intoxicated up to the gills.
Elmira looks into the basket. They was one of them long rubber tubes
stringing out of a bottle that was in it, and I had been sucking that bottle
when interrupted. And they wasn't nothing else in that basket but a big
thick shawl which had been wrapped all around me, and Elmira often
wore it to meeting afterward. She goes inside and she looks at the bottle
and me by the light, and Old Hank, he comes stumbling in afterward
and sets down in a chair and waits to get Hail Columbia for coming
home in that shape, so's he can row back agin, like they done every
Saturday night.

Blowed in the glass of the bottle was the name: "Daniel, Dunne and
Company." Anybody but them two old ignoramuses could of told right
off that that didn't have nothing to do with me, but was jest the
company that made them kind of bottles. But she reads it out loud three
or four times, and then she says:
"His name is Daniel Dunne," she says.
"And Company," says Hank, feeling right quarrelsome.
"COMPANY hain't no name," says she.
"WHY hain't it, I'd like to know?" says Hank. "I knowed a man oncet
whose name was Farmer, and if a farmer's a name why ain't a company
a name too?"
"His name is Daniel Dunne," says Elmira, quiet- like, but not dodging a
row, neither.
"AND COMPANY," says Hank,