"PENROD AND SAM\n\nBy Booth Tarkington\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n     I.     Penrod and Sam\n     II.    The Bonded Prisoner\n     III.   The Militarist\n     IV.    Bingism\n     V.     The In-Or-In\n     VI.    Georgie Becomes a Member\n     VII.   Whitey\n     VIII.  Salvage\n     IX.    Reward of Merit\n     X.     Conscience\n     XI.    The Tonic\n     XII.   Gipsy\n     XIII.  Concerning Trousers\n     XIV.   Camera Work in the Jungle\n     XV.    A Model Letter to a Friend\n     XVI.   Wednesday Madness\n     XVII.  Penrod's Busy Day\n     XVIII. On Account of the Weather\n     XIX.   Creative Art\n     XX.    The Departing Guest\n     XXI.   Yearnings\n     XXII.  The Horn of Fame\n     XXIII. The Party\n     XXIV.  The Heart of Marjorie Jones\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I. PENROD AND SAM\n\nDuring the daylight hours of several autumn Saturdays there had been\nsevere outbreaks of cavalry in the Schofield neighbourhood. The sabres\nwere of wood; the steeds were imaginary, and both were employed in a\ngame called \"bonded pris'ner\" by its inventors, Masters Penrod Schofield\nand Samuel Williams. The pastime was not intricate. When two enemies\nmet, they fenced spectacularly until the person of one or the other was\ntouched by the opposing weapon; then, when the ensuing claims of foul\nplay had been disallowed and the subsequent argument settled, the\ncombatant touched was considered to be a prisoner until such time as\nhe might be touched by the hilt of a sword belonging to one of his own\nparty, which effected his release and restored to him the full enjoyment\nof hostile activity. Pending such rescue, however, he was obliged to\naccompany the forces of his captor whithersoever their strategical\nnecessities led them, which included many strange places. For the game\nwas exciting, and, at its highest pitch, would sweep out of an alley\ninto a stable, out of that stable and into a yard, out of that yard and\ninto a house, and through that house with the sound (and effect upon\nfurniture) of trampling herds. In fact, this very similarity must have\nbeen in the mind of the distressed coloured woman in Mrs. Williams's\nkitchen, when she declared that she might \"jes' as well try to cook\nright spang in the middle o' the stock-yards.\"\n\nAll up and down the neighbourhood the campaigns were waged, accompanied\nby the martial clashing of wood upon wood and by many clamorous\narguments.\n\n\"You're a pris'ner, Roddy Bitts!\"\n\n\"I am not!\"\n\n\"You are, too! I touched you.\"\n\n\"Where, I'd like to know!\"\n\n\"On the sleeve.\"\n\n\"You did not! I never felt it. I guess I'd 'a' felt it, wouldn't I?\"\n\n\"What if you didn't? I touched you, and you're bonded. I leave it to Sam\nWilliams.\"\n\n\"Yah! Course you would! He's on your side! _I_ leave it to Herman.\"\n\n\"No, you won't! If you can't show any SENSE about it, we'll do it over,\nand I guess you'll see whether you feel it or not! There! NOW, I guess\nyou--\"\n\n\"Aw, squash!\"\n\nStrangely enough, the undoubted champion proved to be the youngest and\ndarkest of all the combatants, one Verman, coloured, brother to Herman,\nand substantially under the size to which his nine years entitled him.\nVerman was unfortunately tongue-tied, but he was valiant beyond all\nothers, and, in spite of every handicap, he became at once the chief\nsupport of his own party and the despair of the opposition.\n\nOn the third Saturday this opposition had been worn down by the\nsuccessive captures of Maurice Levy and Georgie Bassett until it\nconsisted of only Sam Williams and Penrod. Hence, it behooved these\ntwo to be wary, lest they be wiped out altogether; and Sam was dismayed\nindeed, upon cautiously scouting round a corner of his own stable, to\nfind himself face to face with the valorous and skilful Verman, who was\nacting as an outpost, or picket, of the enemy.\n\nVerman immediately fell upon Sam, horse and foot, and Sam would\nhave fled but dared not, for fear he might be touched from the rear.\nTherefore, he defended himself as best he could, and there followed a\nlusty whacking, in the course of which Verman's hat, a relic and too\nlarge, fell from his head, touching Sam's weapon in falling.\n\n\"There!\" panted Sam, desisting immediately. \"That counts! You're bonded,\nVerman.\"\n\n\"Aim meewer!\" Verman protested.\n\nInterpreting this as \"Ain't neither\", Sam invented a law to suit the\noccasion. \"Yes, you are; that's the rule, Verman. I touched your hat\nwith my sword, and your hat's just the same as you.\"\n\n\"Imm mop!\" Verman insisted.\n\n\"Yes, it is,\" said Sam, already warmly convinced (by his own statement)\nthat he was in the right. \"Listen here! If I hit you on the shoe, it\nwould be the same as hitting YOU, wouldn't it? I guess it'd count if I\nhit you on the shoe, wouldn't it? Well, a hat's just the same as shoes.\nHonest, that's the rule, Verman, and you're a pris'ner.\"\n\nNow, in the arguing part of the game, Verman's impediment cooperated\nwith a native amiability to render him far less effective than in the\nactual combat. He chuckled, and ceded the point.\n\n\"Aw wi,\" he said, and cheerfully followed his captor to a hidden place\namong some bushes in the front yard, where Penrod lurked.\n\n\"Looky what _I_ got!\" Sam said importantly, pushing his captive into\nthis retreat. \"NOW, I guess you won't say I'm not so much use any more!\nSquat down, Verman, so's they can't see you if they're huntin' for us.\nThat's one o' the rules--honest. You got to squat when we tell you to.\"\n\nVerman was agreeable. He squatted, and then began to laugh uproariously.\n\n\"Stop that noise!\" Penrod commanded. \"You want to betray us? What you\nlaughin' at?\"\n\n\"Ep mack im mimmup,\" Verman giggled.\n\n\"What's he mean?\" Sam asked.\n\nPenrod was more familiar with Verman's utterance, and he interpreted.\n\n\"He says they'll get him back in a minute.\"\n\n\"No, they won't. I'd just like to see--\"\n\n\"Yes, they will, too,\" Penrod said. \"They'll get him back for the main\nand simple reason we can't stay here all day, can we? And they'd find us\nanyhow, if we tried to. There's so many of 'em against just us two, they\ncan run in and touch him soon as they get up to us--and then HE'LL be\nafter us again and--\"\n\n\"Listen here!\" Sam interrupted. \"Why can't we put some REAL bonds on\nhim? We could put bonds on his wrists and around his legs--we could put\n'em all over him, easy as nothin'. Then we could gag him--\"\n\n\"No, we can't,\" said Penrod. \"We can't, for the main and simple reason\nwe haven't got any rope or anything to make the bonds with, have we? I\nwish we had some o' that stuff they give sick people. THEN, I bet they\nwouldn't get him back so soon!\"\n\n\"Sick people?\" Sam repeated, not comprehending.\n\n\"It makes 'em go to sleep, no matter what you do to 'em,\" Penrod\nexplained. \"That's the main and simple reason they can't wake up, and\nyou can cut off their ole legs--or their arms, or anything you want to.\"\n\n\"Hoy!\" exclaimed Verman, in a serious tone. His laughter ceased\ninstantly, and he began to utter a protest sufficiently intelligible.\n\n\"You needn't worry,\" Penrod said gloomily. \"We haven't got any o' that\nstuff; so we can't do it.\"\n\n\"Well, we got to do sumpthing,\" Sam said.\n\nHis comrade agreed, and there was a thoughtful silence; but presently\nPenrod's countenance brightened.\n\n\"I know!\" he exclaimed. \"_I_ know what we'll do with him. Why, I thought\nof it just as EASY! I can most always think of things like that, for the\nmain and simple reason--well, I thought of it just as soon--\"\n\n\"Well, what is it?\" Sam demanded crossly. Penrod's reiteration of his\nnew-found phrase, \"for the main and simple reason\", had been growing\nmore and more irksome to his friend all day, though Sam was not\ndefinitely aware that the phrase was the cause of his annoyance. \"WHAT\nare we goin' to do with him, you know so much?\"\n\nPenrod rose and peered over the tops of the bushes, shading his eyes\nwith his hand, a gesture that was unnecessary but had a good appearance.\nHe looked all round about him in this manner, finally vouchsafing a\nreport to the impatient Sam.\n\n\"No enemies in sight--just for the main and simple reason I expect\nthey're all in the alley and in Georgie Bassett's backyard.\"\n\n\"I bet they're not!\" Sam said scornfully, his irritation much increased.\n\"How do YOU know so much about it?\"\n\n\"Just for the main and simple reason,\" Penrod replied, with dignified\nfinality.\n\nAnd at that, Sam felt a powerful impulse to do violence upon the person\nof his comrade-in-arms. The emotion that prompted this impulse was so\nprimitive and straightforward that it almost resulted in action; but Sam\nhad a vague sense that he must control it as long as he could.\n\n\"Bugs!\" he said.\n\nPenrod was sensitive, and this cold word hurt him. However, he was\nunder the domination of his strategic idea, and he subordinated private\ngrievance to the common weal. \"Get up!\" he commanded. \"You get up, too,\nVerman. You got to--it's the rule. Now here I'll SHOW you what we're\ngoin' to do. Stoop over, and both o' you do just exackly like _I_ do.\nYou watch ME, because this biz'nuss has got to be done RIGHT!\"\n\nSam muttered something; he was becoming more insurgent every moment, but\nhe obeyed. Likewise, Verman rose to his feet, ducked his head between\nhis shoulders, and trotted out to the sidewalk at Sam's heels, both\nfollowing Penrod and assuming a stooping position in imitation of him.\nVerman was delighted with this phase of the game, and, also, he was\nprofoundly amused by Penrod's pomposity. Something dim and deep within\nhim perceived it to be cause for such merriment that he had ado to\nmaster himself, and was forced to bottle and cork his laughter with both\nhands. They proved insufficient; sputterings burst forth between his\nfingers.\n\n\"You stop that!\" Penrod said, looking back darkly upon the prisoner.\n\nVerman endeavoured to oblige, though giggles continued to leak from him\nat intervals, and the three boys stole along the fence in single file,\nproceeding in this fashion until they reached Penrod's own front gate.\nHere the leader ascertained, by a reconnaissance as far as the\ncorner, that the hostile forces were still looking for them in another\ndirection. He returned in a stealthy but important manner to his\ndisgruntled follower and the hilarious captive.\n\n\"Well,\" said Sam impatiently, \"I guess I'm not goin' to stand around\nhere all day, I guess! You got anything you want to do, why'n't you go\non and DO it?\"\n\nPenrod's brow was already contorted to present the appearance of\ndetached and lofty concentration--a histrionic failure, since it did not\ndeceive the audience. He raised a hushing hand.\n\n\"SH!\" he murmured. \"I got to think.\"\n\n\"Bugs!\" the impolite Mr. Williams said again.\n\nVerman bent double, squealing and sputtering; indeed, he was ultimately\nforced to sit upon the ground, so exhausting was the mirth to which he\nnow gave way. Penrod's composure was somewhat affected and he showed\nannoyance.\n\n\"Oh, I guess you won't laugh quite so much about minute from now, ole\nMister Verman!\" he said severely. \"You get up from there and do like I\ntell you.\"\n\n\"Well, why'n't you TELL him why he won't laugh so much, then?\" Sam\ndemanded, as Verman rose. \"Why'n't you do sumpthing and quit talkin' so\nmuch about it?\"\n\nPenrod haughtily led the way into the yard.\n\n\"You follow me,\" he said, \"and I guess you'll learn a little sense!\"\n\nThen, abandoning his hauteur for an air of mystery equally irritating\nto Sam, he stole up the steps of the porch, and, after a moment's\nmanipulation of the knob of the big front door, contrived to operate the\nfastenings, and pushed the door open.\n\n\"Come on,\" he whispered, beckoning. And the three boys mounted the\nstairs to the floor above in silence--save for a belated giggle on\nthe part of Verman, which was restrained upon a terrible gesture from\nPenrod. Verman buried his mouth as deeply as possible in a ragged\nsleeve, and confined his demonstrations to a heaving of the stomach and\ndiaphragm.\n\nPenrod led the way into the dainty room of his nineteen-year-old sister,\nMargaret, and closed the door.\n\n\"There,\" he said, in a low and husky voice, \"I expect you'll see what\nI'm goin' to do now!\"\n\n\"Well, what?\" the skeptical Sam asked. \"If we stay here very long your\nmother'll come and send us downstairs. What's the good of--\"\n\n\"WAIT, can't you?\" Penrod wailed, in a whisper. \"My goodness!\" And going\nto an inner door, he threw it open, disclosing a clothes-closet hung\nwith pretty garments of many kinds, while upon its floor were two rows\nof shoes and slippers of great variety and charm.\n\nA significant thing is to be remarked concerning the door of this\nsomewhat intimate treasury: there was no knob or latch upon the inner\nside, so that, when the door was closed, it could be opened only from\nthe outside.\n\n\"There!\" said Penrod. \"You get in there, Verman, and I'll bet they won't\nget to touch you back out o' bein' our pris'ner very soon, NOW! Oh, I\nguess not!\"\n\n\"Pshaw!\" said Sam. \"Is that all you were goin' to do? Why, your\nmother'll come and make him get out the first--\"\n\n\"No, she won't. She and Margaret have gone to my aunt's in the country,\nand aren't goin' to be back till dark. And even if he made a lot o'\nnoise, it's kind of hard to hear anything from in there, anyway, when\nthe door's shut. Besides, he's got to keep quiet--that's the rule,\nVerman. You're a pris'ner, and it's the rule you can't holler or\nnothin'. You unnerstand that, Verman?\"\n\n\"Aw wi,\" said Verman.\n\n\"Then go on in there. Hurry!\"\n\nThe obedient Verman marched into the closet and sat down among the shoes\nand slippers, where he presented an interesting effect of contrast. He\nwas still subject to hilarity--though endeavouring to suppress it by\nmeans of a patent-leather slipper--when Penrod closed the door.\n\n\"There!\" said Penrod, leading the way from the room. \"I guess NOW you\nsee!\"\n\nSam said nothing, and they came out to the open air and reached their\nretreat in the Williams' yard again, without his having acknowledged\nPenrod's service to their mutual cause.\n\n\"I thought of that just as easy!\" Penrod remarked, probably prompted\nto this odious bit of complacency by Sam's withholding the praise that\nmight naturally have been expected. And he was moved to add, \"I guess\nit'd of been a pretty long while if we'd had to wait for you to think of\nsomething as good as that, Sam.\"\n\n\"Why would it?\" Sam asked. \"Why would it of been such a long while?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" Penrod responded airily, \"just for the main and simple reason!\"\n\nSam could bear it no longer. \"Oh, hush up!\" he shouted.\n\nPenrod was stung. \"Do you mean ME?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Yes, I do!\" the goaded Sam replied.\n\n\"Did you tell ME to hush up?\"\n\n\"Yes, I did!\"\n\n\"I guess you don't know who you're talkin' to,\" Penrod said ominously.\n\"I guess I just better show you who you're talkin' to like that. I guess\nyou need a little sumpthing, for the main and simple--\"\n\nSam uttered an uncontrollable howl and sprang upon Penrod, catching him\nround the waist. Simultaneously with this impact, the wooden swords spun\nthrough the air and were presently trodden underfoot as the two boys\nwrestled to and fro.\n\nPenrod was not altogether surprised by the onset of his friend. He had\nbeen aware of Sam's increasing irritation (though neither boy could\nhave clearly stated its cause) and that very irritation produced a\ncorresponding emotion in the bosom of the irritator. Mentally, Penrod\nwas quite ready for the conflict--nay, he welcomed it--though, for the\nfirst few moments, Sam had the physical advantage.\n\nHowever, it is proper that a neat distinction be drawn here. This was\na conflict; but neither technically nor in the intention of the\ncontestants was it a fight. Penrod and Sam were both in a state of high\nexasperation, and there was great bitterness; but no blows fell and no\ntears. They strained, they wrenched, they twisted, and they panted and\nmuttered: \"Oh, no, you don't!\" \"Oh, I guess I do!\" \"Oh, you will, will\nyou?\" \"You'll see what you get in about a minute!\" \"I guess you'll learn\nsome sense this time!\"\n\nStreaks and blotches began to appear upon the two faces, where colour\nhad been heightened by the ardent application of a cloth sleeve or\nshoulder, while ankles and insteps were scraped and toes were trampled.\nTurf and shrubberies suffered, also, as the struggle went on, until\nfinally the wrestlers pitched headlong into a young lilac bush, and came\nto earth together, among its crushed and sprawling branches.\n\n\"OOCH!\" and \"WUF!\" were the two exclamations which marked this episode,\nand then, with no further comment, the struggle was energetically\ncontinued upon a horizontal plane. Now Penrod was on top, now Sam; they\nrolled, they squirmed, they suffered. And this contest endured. It went\non and on, and it was impossible to imagine its coming to a definite\ntermination. It went on so long that to both the participants it seemed\nto be a permanent thing, a condition that had always existed and that\nmust always exist perpetually.\n\nAnd thus they were discovered by a foray of the hostile party, headed\nby Roddy Bitts and Herman (older brother to Verman) and followed by the\nbonded prisoners, Maurice Levy and Georgie Bassett. These and others\ncaught sight of the writhing figures, and charged down upon them with\nloud cries of triumph.\n\n\"Pris'ner! Pris'ner! Bonded pris'ner!\" shrieked Roddy Bitts, and touched\nPenrod and Sam, each in turn, with his sabre. Then, seeing that they\npaid no attention and that they were at his mercy, he recalled the fact\nthat several times, during earlier stages of the game, both of them had\nbeen unnecessarily vigorous in \"touching\" his own rather plump person.\nTherefore, the opportunity being excellent, he raised his weapon again,\nand, repeating the words \"bonded pris'ner\" as ample explanation of his\ndeed, brought into play the full strength of his good right arm. He used\nthe flat of the sabre.\n\nWHACK! WHACK! Roddy was perfectly impartial. It was a cold-blooded\nperformance and even more effective than he anticipated. For one thing,\nit ended the civil war instantly. Sam and Penrod leaped to their feet,\nshrieking and bloodthirsty, while Maurice Levy capered with joy, Herman\nwas so overcome that he rolled upon the ground, and Georgie Bassett\nremarked virtuously:\n\n\"It serves them right for fighting.\"\n\nBut Roddy Bitts foresaw that something not within the rules of the game\nwas about to happen.\n\n\"Here! You keep away from me!\" he quavered, retreating. \"I was just\ntakin' you pris'ners. I guess I had a right to TOUCH you, didn't I?\"\n\nAlas! Neither Sam nor Penrod was able to see the matter in that light.\nThey had retrieved their own weapons, and they advanced upon Roddy with\na purposefulness that seemed horrible to him.\n\n\"Here! You keep away from me!\" he said, in great alarm. \"I'm goin'\nhome.\"\n\nHe did go home--but only subsequently. What took place before his\ndeparture had the singular solidity and completeness of systematic\nviolence; also, it bore the moral beauty of all actions that lead to\npeace and friendship, for, when it was over, and the final vocalizations\nof Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, were growing faint with increasing\ndistance, Sam and Penrod had forgotten their differences and felt well\ndisposed toward each other once more. All their animosity was exhausted,\nand they were in a glow of good feeling, though probably they were not\nconscious of any direct gratitude to Roddy, whose thoughtful opportunism\nwas really the cause of this happy result.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. THE BONDED PRISONER\n\nAfter such rigorous events, every one comprehended that the game of\nbonded prisoner was over, and there was no suggestion that it should or\nmight be resumed. The fashion of its conclusion had been so consummately\nenjoyed by all parties (with the natural exception of Roddy Bitts) that\na renewal would have been tame; hence, the various minds of the company\nturned to other matters and became restless. Georgie Bassett withdrew\nfirst, remembering that if he expected to be as wonderful as usual,\nto-morrow, in Sunday-school, it was time to prepare himself, though\nthis was not included in the statement he made alleging the cause of\nhis departure. Being detained bodily and pressed for explanation, he\ndesperately said that he had to go home to tease the cook--which had\nthe rakehelly air he thought would insure his release, but was not\nconsidered plausible. However, he was finally allowed to go, and, as\nfirst hints of evening were already cooling and darkening the air,\nthe party broke up, its members setting forth, whistling, toward their\nseveral homes, though Penrod lingered with Sam. Herman was the last to\ngo from them.\n\n\"Well, I got git 'at stove-wood f' suppuh,\" he said, rising and\nstretching himself. \"I got git 'at lil' soap-box wagon, an' go on ovuh\nwheres 'at new house buil'in' on Secon' Street; pick up few shingles an'\nblocks layin' roun'.\"\n\nHe went through the yard toward the alley, and, at the alley gate,\nremembering something, he paused and called to them. The lot was a\ndeep one, and they were too far away to catch his meaning. Sam shouted,\n\"Can't HEAR you!\" and Herman replied, but still unintelligibly; then,\nupon Sam's repetition of \"Can't HEAR you!\" Herman waved his arm in\nfarewell, implying that the matter was of little significance, and\nvanished. But if they had understood him, Penrod and Sam might have\nconsidered his inquiry of instant importance, for Herman's last shout\nwas to ask if either of them had noticed \"where Verman went.\"\n\nVerman and Verman's whereabouts were, at this hour, of no more concern\nto Sam and Penrod than was the other side of the moon. That unfortunate\nbonded prisoner had been long since utterly effaced from their fields\nof consciousness, and the dark secret of their Bastille troubled them\nnot--for the main and simple reason that they had forgotten it.\n\nThey drifted indoors, and found Sam's mother's white cat drowsing on\na desk in the library, the which coincidence obviously inspired the\nexperiment of ascertaining how successfully ink could be used in making\na clean white cat look like a coach-dog. There was neither malice\nnor mischief in their idea; simply, a problem presented itself to the\nbiological and artistic questionings beginning to stir within them.\nThey did not mean to do the cat the slightest injury or to cause her any\npain. They were above teasing cats, and they merely detained this one\nand made her feel a little wet--at considerable cost to themselves from\nboth the ink and the cat. However, at the conclusion of their efforts,\nit was thought safer to drop the cat out of the window before anybody\ncame, and, after some hasty work with blotters, the desk was moved to\ncover certain sections of the rug, and the two boys repaired to the\nbathroom for hot water and soap. They knew they had done nothing wrong;\nbut they felt easier when the only traces remaining upon them were the\nless prominent ones upon their garments.\n\nThese precautions taken, it was time for them to make their appearance\nat Penrod's house for dinner, for it had been arranged, upon petition\nearlier in the day, that Sam should be his friend's guest for the\nevening meal. Clean to the elbows and with light hearts, they set forth.\nThey marched, whistling--though not producing a distinctly musical\neffect, since neither had any particular air in mind--and they found\nnothing wrong with the world; they had not a care. Arrived at their\nadjacent destination, they found Miss Margaret Schofield just entering\nthe front door.\n\n\"Hurry, boys!\" she said. \"Mamma came home long before I did, and I'm\nsure dinner is waiting. Run on out to the dining-room and tell them I'll\nbe right down.\"\n\nAnd, as they obeyed, she mounted the stairs, humming a little tune and\nunfastening the clasp of the long, light-blue military cape she wore.\nShe went to her own quiet room, lit the gas, removed her hat and placed\nit and the cape upon the bed; after which she gave her hair a push,\nsubsequent to her scrutiny of a mirror; then, turning out the light, she\nwent as far as the door. Being an orderly girl, she returned to the bed\nand took the cape and the hat to her clothes-closet. She opened the\ndoor of this sanctuary, and, in the dark, hung her cape upon a hook and\nplaced her hat upon the shelf. Then she closed the door again, having\nnoted nothing unusual, though she had an impression that the place\nneeded airing. She descended to the dinner table.\n\nThe other members of the family were already occupied with the meal, and\nthe visitor was replying politely, in his non-masticatory intervals, to\ninquiries concerning the health of his relatives. So sweet and assured\nwas the condition of Sam and Penrod that Margaret's arrival from her\nroom meant nothing to them. Their memories were not stirred, and they\ncontinued eating, their expressions brightly placid.\n\nBut from out of doors there came the sound of a calling and questing\nvoice, at first in the distance, then growing louder--coming nearer.\n\n\"Oh, Ver-er-man! O-o-o-oh, Ver-er-ma-a-an!\"\n\nIt was the voice of Herman.\n\n\"OO-O-O-O-OH, VER-ER-ER-MA-A-A-AN!\"\n\nAnd then two boys sat stricken at that cheerful table and ceased to eat.\nRecollection awoke with a bang!\n\n\"Oh, my!\" Sam gasped.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" Mr. Schofield said. \"Swallow something the wrong\nway, Sam?\"\n\n\"Ye-es, sir.\"\n\n\"OO-O-O-O-OH, VER-ER-ER-MA-A-A-AN!\"\n\nAnd now the voice was near the windows of the dining-room.\n\nPenrod, very pale, pushed back his chair and jumped up.\n\n\"What's the matter with YOU?\" his father demanded. \"Sit down!\"\n\n\"It's Herman--that coloured boy lives in the alley,\" Penrod said\nhoarsely. \"I expect--I think--\"\n\n\"Well, what's the matter?\"\n\n\"I think his little brother's maybe got lost, and Sam and I better go\nhelp look--\"\n\n\"You'll do nothing of the kind,\" Mr. Schofield said sharply. \"Sit down\nand eat your dinner.\"\n\nIn a palsy, the miserable boy resumed his seat. He and Sam exchanged a\nsingle dumb glance; then the eyes of both swung fearfully to Margaret.\nHer appearance was one of sprightly content, and, from a certain point\nof view, nothing could have been more alarming. If she had opened her\ncloset door without discovering Verman, that must have been because\nVerman was dead and Margaret had failed to notice the body. (Such were\nthe thoughts of Penrod and Sam.) But she might not have opened the\ncloset door. And whether she had or not, Verman must still be there,\nalive or dead, for if he had escaped he would have gone home, and their\nears would not be ringing with the sinister and melancholy cry that now\ncame from the distance, \"Oo-o-oh, Ver-er-ma-an!\"\n\nVerman, in his seclusion, did not hear that appeal from his brother;\nthere were too many walls between them. But he was becoming impatient\nfor release, though, all in all, he had not found the confinement\nintolerable or even very irksome. His character was philosophic, his\nimagination calm; no bugaboos came to trouble him. When the boys closed\nthe door upon him, he made himself comfortable upon the floor and, for\na time, thoughtfully chewed a patent-leather slipper that had come under\nhis hand. He found the patent leather not unpleasant to his palate,\nthough he swallowed only a portion of what he detached, not being hungry\nat that time. The soul-fabric of Verman was of a fortunate weave; he was\nnot a seeker and questioner. When it happened to him that he was at\nrest in a shady corner, he did not even think about a place in the sun.\nVerman took life as it came.\n\nNaturally, he fell asleep. And toward the conclusion of his slumbers, he\nhad this singular adventure: a lady set her foot down within less than\nhalf an inch of his nose--and neither of them knew it. Verman slept on,\nwithout being wakened by either the closing or the opening of the\ndoor. What did rouse him was something ample and soft falling upon\nhim--Margaret's cape, which slid from the hook after she had gone.\n\nEnveloped in its folds, Verman sat up, corkscrewing his knuckles\ninto the corners of his eyes. Slowly he became aware of two important\nvacuums--one in time and one in his stomach. Hours had vanished\nstrangely into nowhere; the game of bonded prisoner was something cloudy\nand remote of the long, long ago, and, although Verman knew where\nhe was, he had partially forgotten how he came there. He perceived,\nhowever, that something had gone wrong, for he was certain that he ought\nnot to be where he found himself.\n\nWHITE-FOLKS' HOUSE! The fact that Verman could not have pronounced these\nwords rendered them no less clear in his mind; they began to stir\nhis apprehension, and nothing becomes more rapidly tumultuous than\napprehension once it is stirred. That he might possibly obtain release\nby making a noise was too daring a thought and not even conceived,\nmuch less entertained, by the little and humble Verman. For, with the\nbewildering gap of his slumber between him and previous events, he did\nnot place the responsibility for his being in White-Folks' House upon\nthe white folks who had put him there. His state of mind was that of the\nstable-puppy who knows he MUST not be found in the parlour. Not thrice\nin his life had Verman been within the doors of White-Folks' House, and,\nabove all things, he felt that it was in some undefined way vital to him\nto get out of White-Folks' House unobserved and unknown. It was in his\nvery blood to be sure of that.\n\nFurther than this point, the processes of Verman's mind become\nmysterious to the observer. It appears, however, that he had a definite\n(though somewhat primitive) conception of the usefulness of disguise;\nand he must have begun his preparations before he heard footsteps in the\nroom outside his closed door.\n\nThese footsteps were Margaret's. Just as Mr. Schofield's coffee was\nbrought, and just after Penrod had been baffled in another attempt to\nleave the table, Margaret rose and patted her father impertinently upon\nthe head.\n\n\"You can't bully ME that way!\" she said. \"I got home too late to dress,\nand I'm going to a dance. 'Scuse!\"\n\nAnd she began her dancing on the spot, pirouetting herself swiftly out\nof the room, and was immediately heard running up the stairs.\n\n\"Penrod!\" Mr. Schofield shouted. \"Sit down! How many times am I going to\ntell you? What IS the matter with you to-night?\"\n\n\"I GOT to go,\" Penrod gasped. \"I got to tell Margaret sumpthing.\"\n\n\"What have you 'got' to tell her?\"\n\n\"It's--it's sumpthing I forgot to tell her.\"\n\n\"Well, it will keep till she comes downstairs,\" Mr. Schofield said\ngrimly. \"You sit down till this meal is finished.\"\n\nPenrod was becoming frantic.\n\n\"I got to tell her--it's sumpthing Sam's mother told me to tell her,\"\nhe babbled. \"Didn't she, Sam? You heard her tell me to tell her; didn't\nyou, Sam?\"\n\nSam offered prompt corroboration.\n\n\"Yes, sir; she did. She said for us both to tell her. I better go, too,\nI guess, because she said--\"\n\nHe was interrupted. Startlingly upon their ears rang shriek on shriek.\nMrs. Schofield, recognizing Margaret's voice, likewise shrieked, and Mr.\nSchofield uttered various sounds; but Penrod and Sam were incapable of\ndoing anything vocally. All rushed from the table.\n\nMargaret continued to shriek, and it is not to be denied that there\nwas some cause for her agitation. When she opened the closet door, her\nlight-blue military cape, instead of hanging on the hook where she had\nleft it, came out into the room in a manner that she afterward described\nas \"a kind of horrible creep, but faster than a creep.\" Nothing was to\nbe seen except the creeping cape, she said, but, of course, she could\ntell there was some awful thing inside of it. It was too large to be a\ncat, and too small to be a boy; it was too large to be Duke, Penrod's\nlittle old dog, and, besides, Duke wouldn't act like that. It crept\nrapidly out into the upper hall, and then, as she recovered the use of\nher voice and began to scream, the animated cape abandoned its creeping\nfor a quicker gait--\"a weird, heaving flop,\" she defined it.\n\nThe Thing then decided upon a third style of locomotion, evidently, for\nwhen Sam and Penrod reached the front hall, a few steps in advance of\nMr. and Mrs. Schofield, it was rolling grandly down the stairs.\n\nMr. Schofield had only a hurried glimpse of it as it reached the bottom,\nclose by the front door.\n\n\"Grab that thing!\" he shouted, dashing forward. \"Stop it! Hit it!\"\n\nIt was at this moment that Sam Williams displayed the presence of mind\nthat was his most eminent characteristic. Sam's wonderful instinct for\nthe right action almost never failed him in a crisis, and it did not\nfail him now. Leaping to the door, at the very instant when the rolling\ncape touched it, Sam flung the door open--and the cape rolled on. With\nincredible rapidity and intelligence, it rolled, indeed, out into the\nnight.\n\nPenrod jumped after it, and the next second reappeared in the doorway\nholding the cape. He shook out its folds, breathing hard but acquiring\nconfidence. In fact, he was able to look up in his father's face and\nsay, with bright ingenuousness:\n\n\"It was just laying there. Do you know what I think? Well, it couldn't\nhave acted that way itself. I think there must have been sumpthing kind\nof inside of it!\"\n\nMr. Schofield shook his head slowly, in marvelling admiration.\n\n\"Brilliant--oh, brilliant!\" he murmured, while Mrs. Schofield ran to\nsupport the enfeebled form of Margaret at the top of the stairs.\n\n... In the library, after Margaret's departure to her dance, Mr. and\nMrs. Schofield were still discussing the visitation, Penrod having\naccompanied his homeward-bound guest as far as the front gate.\n\n\"No; you're wrong,\" Mrs. Schofield said, upholding a theory, earlier\ndeveloped by Margaret, that the animated behaviour of the cape could be\nsatisfactorily explained on no other ground than the supernatural. \"You\nsee, the boys saying they couldn't remember what Mrs. Williams wanted\nthem to tell Margaret, and that probably she hadn't told them anything\nto tell her, because most likely they'd misunderstood something she\nsaid--well, of course, all that does sound mixed-up and peculiar;\nbut they sound that way about half the time, anyhow. No; it couldn't\npossibly have had a thing to do with it. They were right there at the\ntable with us all the time, and they came straight to the table the\nminute they entered the house. Before that, they'd been over at Sam's\nall afternoon. So, it COULDN'T have been the boys.\" Mrs. Schofield\npaused to ruminate with a little air of pride; then added: \"Margaret has\noften thought--oh, long before this!--that she was a medium. I mean--if\nshe would let her self. So it wasn't anything the boys did.\"\n\nMr. Schofield grunted.\n\n\"I'll admit this much,\" he said. \"I'll admit it wasn't anything we'll\never get out of 'em.\"\n\nAnd the remarks of Sam and Penrod, taking leave of each other, one on\neach side of the gate, appeared to corroborate Mr. Schofield's opinion.\n\n\"Well, g'-night, Penrod,\" Sam said. \"It was a pretty good Saturday,\nwasn't it?\"\n\n\"Fine!\" said Penrod casually. \"G'-night, Sam.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. THE MILITARIST\n\nPENROD SCHOFIELD, having been \"kept-in\" for the unjust period of twenty\nminutes after school, emerged to a deserted street. That is, the street\nwas deserted so far as Penrod was concerned. Here and there people were\nto be seen upon the sidewalks, but they were adults, and they and the\nshade trees had about the same quality of significance in Penrod's\nconsciousness. Usually he saw grown people in the mass, which is to say,\nthey were virtually invisible to him, though exceptions must be taken in\nfavour of policemen, firemen, street-car conductors, motormen, and all\nother men in any sort of uniform or regalia. But this afternoon none\nof these met the roving eye, and Penrod set out upon his homeward way\nwholly dependent upon his own resources.\n\nTo one of Penrod's inner texture, a mere unadorned walk from one\npoint to another was intolerable, and he had not gone a block without\nachieving some slight remedy for the tameness of life. An electric-light\npole at the corner, invested with powers of observation, might have been\nsurprised to find itself suddenly enacting a role of dubious honour in\nimprovised melodrama. Penrod, approaching, gave the pole a look of sharp\nsuspicion, then one of conviction; slapped it lightly and contemptuously\nwith his open hand; passed on a few paces, but turned abruptly, and,\npointing his right forefinger, uttered the symbolic word, \"Bing!\"\n\nThe plot was somewhat indefinite; yet nothing is more certain than that\nthe electric-light pole had first attempted something against him,\nthen growing bitter when slapped, and stealing after him to take him\ntreacherously in the back, had got itself shot through and through by\none too old in such warfare to be caught off his guard.\n\nLeaving the body to lie where it was, he placed the smoking pistol in\na holster at his saddlebow--he had decided that he was mounted--and\nproceeded up the street. At intervals he indulged himself in other\nencounters, reining in at first suspicion of ambush with a muttered,\n\"Whoa, Charlie!\" or \"Whoa, Mike!\" or even \"Whoa, Washington!\" for\npreoccupation with the enemy outweighed attention to the details of\ntheatrical consistency, though the steed's varying names were at least\nharmoniously masculine, since a boy, in these, creative moments, never\nrides a mare. And having brought Charlie or Mike or Washington to\na standstill, Penrod would draw the sure weapon from its holster\nand--\"Bing! Bing! Bing!\"--let them have it.\n\nIt is not to be understood that this was a noisy performance, or even an\nobvious one. It attracted no attention from any pedestrian, and it\nwas to be perceived only that a boy was proceeding up the street at a\nsomewhat irregular gait. Three or four years earlier, when Penrod was\nseven or eight, he would have shouted \"Bing!\" at the top of his voice;\nhe would have galloped openly; all the world might have seen that he\nbestrode a charger. But a change had come upon him with advancing years.\nAlthough the grown people in sight were indeed to him as walking trees,\nhis dramas were accomplished principally by suggestion and symbol.\nHis \"Whoas\" and \"Bings\" were delivered in a husky whisper, and his\nequestrianism was established by action mostly of the mind, the\naccompanying artistry of the feet being unintelligible to the passerby.\n\nAnd yet, though he concealed from observation the stirring little scenes\nhe thus enacted, a love of realism was increasing within him. Early\nchildhood is not fastidious about the accessories of its drama--a cane\nis vividly a gun which may instantly, as vividly, become a horse; but at\nPenrod's time of life the lath sword is no longer satisfactory. Indeed,\nhe now had a vague sense that weapons of wood were unworthy to the point\nof being contemptible and ridiculous, and he employed them only when\nhe was alone and unseen. For months a yearning had grown more and more\npoignant in his vitals, and this yearning was symbolized by one of his\nmost profound secrets. In the inner pocket of his jacket, he carried a\nbit of wood whittled into the distant likeness of a pistol, but not even\nSam Williams had seen it. The wooden pistol never knew the light of day,\nsave when Penrod was in solitude; and yet it never left his side\nexcept at night, when it was placed under his pillow. Still, it did not\nsatisfy; it was but the token of his yearning and his dream. With all\nhis might and main Penrod longed for one thing beyond all others. He\nwanted a Real Pistol!\n\nThat was natural. Pictures of real pistols being used to magnificently\nromantic effect were upon almost all the billboards in town, the year\nround, and as for the \"movie\" shows, they could not have lived an hour\nunpistoled. In the drug store, where Penrod bought his candy and soda\nwhen he was in funds, he would linger to turn the pages of periodicals\nwhose illustrations were fascinatingly pistolic. Some of the magazines\nupon the very library table at home were sprinkled with pictures of\npeople (usually in evening clothes) pointing pistols at other people.\nNay, the Library Board of the town had emitted a \"Selected List of\nFifteen Books for Boys,\" and Penrod had read fourteen of them with\npleasure, but as the fifteenth contained no weapons in the earlier\nchapters and held forth little prospect of any shooting at all, he\nabandoned it halfway, and read the most sanguinary of the other fourteen\nover again. So, the daily food of his imagination being gun, what wonder\nthat he thirsted for the Real!\n\nHe passed from the sidewalk into his own yard, with a subdued \"Bing!\"\ninflicted upon the stolid person of a gatepost, and, entering the house\nthrough the kitchen, ceased to bing for a time. However, driven back\nfrom the fore part of the house by a dismal sound of callers, he\nreturned to the kitchen and sat down.\n\n\"Della,\" he said to the cook, \"do you know what I'd do if you was a\ncrook and I had my ottomatic with me?\"\n\nDella was industrious and preoccupied. \"If I was a cook!\" she repeated\nignorantly, and with no cordiality. \"Well, I AM a cook. I'm a-cookin'\nright now. Either g'wan in the house where y'b'long, or git out in th'\nyard!\"\n\nPenrod chose the latter, and betook himself slowly to the back fence,\nwhere he was greeted in a boisterous manner by his wistful little old\ndog, Duke, returning from some affair of his own in the alley.\n\n\"Get down!\" said Penrod coldly, and bestowed a spiritless \"Bing!\" upon\nhim.\n\nAt this moment a shout was heard from the alley, \"Yay, Penrod!\" and the\nsandy head of comrade Sam Williams appeared above the fence.\n\n\"Come on over,\" said Penrod.\n\nAs Sam obediently climbed the fence, the little old dog, Duke, moved\nslowly away, but presently, glancing back over his shoulder and seeing\nthe two boys standing together, he broke into a trot and disappeared\nround a corner of the house. He was a dog of long and enlightening\nexperience; and he made it clear that the conjunction of Penrod and Sam\nportended events which, from his point of view, might be unfortunate.\nDuke had a forgiving disposition, but he also possessed a melancholy\nwisdom. In the company of either Penrod or Sam, alone, affection often\ncaused him to linger, albeit with a little pessimism, but when he saw\nthem together, he invariably withdrew in as unobtrusive a manner as\nhaste would allow.\n\n\"What you doin'?\" Sam asked.\n\n\"Nothin'. What you?\"\n\n\"I'll show you if you'll come over to our house,\" said Sam, who was\nwearing an important and secretive expression.\n\n\"What for?\" Penrod showed little interest.\n\n\"Well, I said I'd show you if you came on over, didn't I?\"\n\n\"But you haven't got anything I haven't got,\" said Penrod indifferently.\n\"I know everything that's in your yard and in your stable, and there\nisn't a thing--\"\n\n\"I didn't say it was in the yard or in the stable, did I?\"\n\n\"Well, there ain't anything in your house,\" returned Penrod frankly,\n\"that I'd walk two feet to look at--not a thing!\"\n\n\"Oh, no!\" Sam assumed mockery. \"Oh, no, you wouldn't! You know what it\nis, don't you? Yes, you do!\" Penrod's curiosity stirred somewhat. \"Well,\nall right,\" he said, \"I got nothin' to do. I just as soon go. What is\nit?\"\n\n\"You wait and see,\" said Sam, as they climbed the fence. \"I bet YOUR ole\neyes'll open pretty far in about a minute or so!\"\n\n\"I bet they don't. It takes a good deal to get me excited, unless it's\nsumpthing mighty--\"\n\n\"You'll see!\" Sam promised.\n\nHe opened an alley, gate and stepped into his own yard in a manner\nsignalling caution--though the exploit, thus far, certainly required\nnone and Penrod began to be impressed and hopeful. They entered the\nhouse, silently, encountering no one, and Sam led the way upstairs,\ntiptoeing, implying unusual and increasing peril. Turning, in the upper\nhall, they went into Sam's father's bedroom, and Sam closed the door\nwith a caution so genuine that already Penrod's eyes began to fulfil his\nhost's prediction. Adventures in another boy's house are trying to the\nnerves; and another boy's father's bedroom, when invaded, has a violated\nsanctity that is almost appalling. Penrod felt that something was about\nto happen--something much more important than he had anticipated.\n\nSam tiptoed across the room to a chest of drawers, and, kneeling,\ncarefully pulled out the lowest drawer until the surface of its\ncontents--Mr. Williams' winter underwear--lay exposed. Then he fumbled\nbeneath the garments and drew forth a large object, displaying it\ntriumphantly to the satisfactorily dumfounded Penrod.\n\nIt was a blue-steel Colt's revolver, of the heaviest pattern made in the\nSeventies. Mr. Williams had inherited it from Sam's grandfather (a small\nman, a deacon, and dyspeptic) and it was larger and more horrible than\nany revolver either of the boys had ever seen in any picture, moving or\nstationary. Moreover, greenish bullets of great size were to be seen\nin the chambers of the cylinder, suggesting massacre rather than mere\nmurder. This revolver was Real and it was Loaded!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. BINGISM\n\nBoth boys lived breathlessly through a magnificent moment.\n\n\"Leave me have it!\" gasped Penrod. \"Leave me have hold of it!\"\n\n\"You wait a minute!\" Sam protested, in a whisper. \"I want to show you\nhow I do.\"\n\n\"No; you let me show you how _I_ do!\" Penrod insisted; and they scuffled\nfor possession.\n\n\"Look out!\" Sam whispered warningly. \"It might go off.\"\n\n\"Then you better leave me have it!\" And Penrod, victorious and flushed,\nstepped back, the weapon in his grasp. \"Here,\" he said, \"this is the way\nI do: You be a crook; and suppose you got a dagger, and I--\"\n\n\"I don't want any dagger,\" Sam protested, advancing. \"I want that\nrevolaver. It's my father's revolaver, ain't it?\"\n\n\"Well, WAIT a minute, can't you? I got a right to show you the way I DO,\nfirst, haven't I?\" Penrod began an improvisation on the spot. \"Say I'm\ncomin' along after dark like this--look, Sam! And say you try to make a\njump at me--\"\n\n\"I won't!\" Sam declined this role impatiently. \"I guess it ain't YOUR\nfather's revolaver, is it?\"\n\n\"Well, it may be your father's but it ain't yours,\" Penrod argued,\nbecoming logical. \"It ain't either'r of us revolaver, so I got as much\nright--\"\n\n\"You haven't either. It's my fath--\"\n\n\"WATCH, can't you--just a minute!\" Penrod urged vehemently. \"I'm not\ngoin' to keep it, am I? You can have it when I get through, can't you?\nHere's how _I_ do: I'm comin' along after dark, just walkin' along this\nway--like this--look, Sam!\"\n\nPenrod, suiting the action to the word, walked to the other end of the\nroom, swinging the revolver at his side with affected carelessness.\n\n\"I'm just walkin' along like this, and first I don't see you,\" continued\nthe actor. \"Then I kind of get a notion sumpthing wrong's liable to\nhappen, so I--No!\" He interrupted himself abruptly. \"No; that isn't\nit. You wouldn't notice that I had my good ole revolaver with me. You\nwouldn't think I had one, because it'd be under my coat like this, and\nyou wouldn't see it.\" Penrod stuck the muzzle of the pistol into the\nwaistband of his knickerbockers at the left side and, buttoning his\njacket, sustained the weapon in concealment by pressure of his elbow.\n\"So you think I haven't got any; you think I'm just a man comin' along,\nand so you--\"\n\nSam advanced. \"Well, you've had your turn,\" he said. \"Now, it's mine.\nI'm goin' to show you how I--\"\n\n\"WATCH me, can't you?\" Penrod wailed. \"I haven't showed you how _I_ do,\nhave I? My goodness! Can't you watch me a minute?\"\n\n\"I HAVE been! You said yourself it'd be my turn soon as you--\"\n\n\"My goodness! Let me have a CHANCE, can't you?\" Penrod retreated to the\nwall, turning his right side toward Sam and keeping the revolver still\nprotected under his coat. \"I got to have my turn first, haven't I?\"\n\n\"Well, yours is over long ago.\"\n\n\"It isn't either! I--\"\n\n\"Anyway,\" said Sam decidedly, clutching him by the right shoulder and\nendeavouring to reach his left side--\"anyway, I'm goin' to have it now.\"\n\n\"You said I could have my turn out!\" Penrod, carried away by\nindignation, raised his voice.\n\n\"I did not!\" Sam, likewise lost to caution, asserted his denial loudly.\n\n\"You did, too.\"\n\n\"You said--\"\n\n\"I never said anything!\"\n\n\"You said--Quit that!\"\n\n\"Boys!\" Mrs. Williams, Sam's mother, opened the door of the room\nand stood upon the threshold. The scuffling of Sam and Penrod ceased\ninstantly, and they stood hushed and stricken, while fear fell upon\nthem. \"Boys, you weren't quarrelling, were you?\"\n\n\"Ma'am?\" said Sam.\n\n\"Were you quarrelling with Penrod?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am,\" answered Sam in a small voice.\n\n\"It sounded like it. What was the matter?\"\n\nBoth boys returned her curious glance with meekness. They were summoning\ntheir faculties--which were needed. Indeed, these are the crises which\nprepare a boy for the business difficulties of his later life. Penrod,\nwith the huge weapon beneath his jacket, insecurely supported by\nan elbow and by a waistband which he instantly began to distrust,\nexperienced distressful sensations similar to those of the owner of too\nheavily insured property carrying a gasoline can under his overcoat and\ndetained for conversation by a policeman. And if, in the coming years\nit was to be Penrod's lot to find himself in that precise situation, no\ndoubt he would be the better prepared for it on account of this present\nafternoon's experience under the scalding eye of Mrs. Williams. It\nshould be added that Mrs. Williams's eye was awful to the imagination\nonly. It was a gentle eye and but mildly curious, having no remote\nsuspicion of the dreadful truth, for Sam had backed upon the chest of\ndrawers and closed the damnatory open one with the calves of his legs.\n\nSam, not bearing the fatal evidence upon his person, was in a better\nstate than Penrod, though when boys fall into the stillness now assumed\nby these two, it should be understood that they are suffering. Penrod,\nin fact, was the prey to apprehension so keen that the actual pit of his\nstomach was cold.\n\nBeing the actual custodian of the crime, he understood that his case\nwas several degrees more serious than that of Sam, who, in the event of\ndetection, would be convicted as only an accessory. It was a lesson, and\nPenrod already repented his selfishness in not allowing Sam to show how\nhe did, first.\n\n\"You're sure you weren't quarrelling, Sam?\" said Mrs. Williams.\n\n\"No, ma'am; we were just talking.\"\n\nStill she seemed dimly uneasy, and her eye swung to Penrod.\n\n\"What were you and Sam talking about, Penrod!\"\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"What were you talking about?\"\n\nPenrod gulped invisibly.\n\n\"Well,\" he murmured, \"it wasn't much. Different things.\"\n\n\"What things?\"\n\n\"Oh, just sumpthing. Different things.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you weren't quarrelling,\" said Mrs. Williams, reassured by\nthis reply, which, though somewhat baffling, was thoroughly familiar to\nher ear. \"Now, if you'll come downstairs, I'll give you each one cookie\nand no more, so your appetites won't be spoiled for your dinners.\"\n\nShe stood, evidently expecting them to precede her. To linger might\nrenew vague suspicion, causing it to become more definite; and boys\npreserve themselves from moment to moment, not often attempting\nto secure the future. Consequently, the apprehensive Sam and the\nunfortunate Penrod (with the monstrous implement bulking against his\nribs) walked out of the room and down the stairs, their countenances\nindicating an interior condition of solemnity. And a curious shade of\nbehaviour might have here interested a criminologist. Penrod endeavoured\nto keep as close to Sam as possible, like a lonely person seeking\ncompany, while, on the other hand, Sam kept moving away from Penrod,\nseeming to desire an appearance of aloofness.\n\n\"Go into the library, boys,\" said Mrs. Williams, as the three reached\nthe foot of the stairs. \"I'll bring you your cookies. Papa's in there.\"\n\nUnder her eye the two entered the library, to find Mr. Williams reading\nhis evening paper. He looked up pleasantly, but it seemed to Penrod that\nhe had an ominous and penetrating expression.\n\n\"What have you been up to, you boys?\" inquired this enemy.\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Sam. \"Different things.\"\n\n\"What like?\"\n\n\"Oh--just different things.\"\n\n\nMr. Williams nodded; then his glance rested casually upon Penrod.\n\n\"What's the matter with your arm, Penrod?\"\n\nPenrod became paler, and Sam withdrew from him almost conspicuously.\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"I said, What's the matter with your arm?\"\n\n\"Which one?\" Penrod quavered.\n\n\"Your left. You seem to be holding it at an unnatural position. Have you\nhurt it?\"\n\nPenrod swallowed. \"Yes, sir. A boy bit me--I mean a dog--a dog bit me.\"\n\nMr. Williams murmured sympathetically: \"That's too bad! Where did he\nbite you?\"\n\n\"On the--right on the elbow.\"\n\n\"Good gracious! Perhaps you ought to have it cauterized.\"\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"Did you have a doctor look at it?\"\n\n\"No, sir. My mother put some stuff from the drug store on it.\"\n\n\"Oh, I see. Probably it's all right, then.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\" Penrod drew breath more freely, and accepted the warm cookie\nMrs. Williams brought him. He ate it without relish.\n\n\"You can have only one apiece,\" she said. \"It's too near dinner-time.\nYou needn't beg for any more, because you can't have 'em.\"\n\nThey were good about that; they were in no frame of digestion for\ncookies.\n\n\"Was it your own dog that bit you?\" Mr. Williams inquired.\n\n\"Sir? No, sir. It wasn't Duke.\"\n\n\"Penrod!\" Mrs. Williams exclaimed. \"When did it happen?\"\n\n\"I don't remember just when,\" he answered feebly. \"I guess it was day\nbefore yesterday.\"\n\n\"Gracious! How did it--\"\n\n\"He--he just came up and bit me.\"\n\n\"Why, that's terrible! It might be dangerous for other children,\" said\nMrs. Williams, with a solicitous glance at Sam. \"Don't you know whom he\nbelongs to?\"\n\n\"No'm. It was just a dog.\"\n\n\"You poor boy! Your mother must have been dreadfully frightened when you\ncame home and she saw--\"\n\nShe was interrupted by the entrance of a middle-aged coloured woman.\n\"Miz Williams,\" she began, and then, as she caught sight of Penrod, she\naddressed him directly, \"You' ma telefoam if you here, send you home\nright away, 'cause they waitin' dinner on you.\"\n\n\"Run along, then,\" said Mrs. Williams, patting the visitor lightly upon\nhis shoulder; and she accompanied him to the front door. \"Tell your\nmother I'm so sorry about your getting bitten, and you must take good\ncare of it, Penrod.\"\n\n\"Yes'm.\"\n\nPenrod lingered helplessly outside the doorway, looking at Sam, who\nstood partially obscured in the hall, behind Mrs. Williams. Penrod's\neyes, with veiled anguish, conveyed a pleading for help as well as a\nhorror of the position in which he found himself. Sam, however, pale and\ndetermined, seemed to have assumed a stony attitude of detachment, as if\nit were well understood between them that his own comparative innocence\nwas established, and that whatever catastrophe ensued, Penrod had\nbrought it on and must bear the brunt of it alone.\n\n\"Well, you'd better run along, since they're waiting for you at home,\"\nsaid Mrs. Williams, closing the door. \"Good-night, Penrod.\"\n\n... Ten minutes later Penrod took his place at his own dinner-table,\nsomewhat breathless but with an expression of perfect composure.\n\n\"Can't you EVER come home without being telephoned for?\" demanded his\nfather.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\" And Penrod added reproachfully, placing the blame upon\nmembers of Mr. Schofield's own class, \"Sam's mother and father kept me,\nor I'd been home long ago. They would keep on talkin', and I guess I had\nto be POLITE, didn't I?\"\n\nHis left arm was as free as his right; there was no dreadful bulk\nbeneath his jacket, and at Penrod's age the future is too far away to\nbe worried about the difference between temporary security and permanent\nsecurity is left for grown people. To Penrod, security was security, and\nbefore his dinner was half eaten his spirit had become fairly serene.\n\nNevertheless, when he entered the empty carriage-house of the stable,\non his return from school the next afternoon, his expression was not\naltogether without apprehension, and he stood in the doorway looking\nwell about him before he lifted a loosened plank in the flooring and\ntook from beneath it the grand old weapon of the Williams family. Not\ndid his eye lighten with any pleasurable excitement as he sat himself\ndown in a shadowy corner and began some sketchy experiments with\nthe mechanism. The allure of first sight was gone. In Mr. Williams'\nbedchamber, with Sam clamouring for possession, it had seemed to Penrod\nthat nothing in the world was so desirable as to have that revolver\nin his own hands--it was his dream come true. But, for reasons not\ndefinitely known to him, the charm had departed; he turned the cylinder\ngingerly, almost with distaste; and slowly there stole over him a\nfeeling that there was something repellent and threatening in the heavy\nblue steel.\n\nThus does the long-dreamed Real misbehave--not only for Penrod!\n\nMore out of a sense of duty to bingism in general than for any other\nreason, he pointed the revolver at the lawn-mower, and gloomily\nmurmured, \"Bing!\"\n\nSimultaneously, a low and cautious voice sounded from the yard outside,\n\"Yay, Penrod!\" and Sam Williams darkened the doorway, his eye falling\ninstantly upon the weapon in his friend's hand. Sam seemed relieved to\nsee it.\n\n\"You didn't get caught with it, did you?\" he said hastily.\n\nPenrod shook his head, rising.\n\n\"I guess not! I guess I got SOME brains around me,\" he added, inspired\nby Sam's presence to assume a slight swagger. \"They'd have to get up\npretty early to find any good ole revolaver, once I got MY hands on it!\"\n\n\"I guess we can keep it, all right,\" Sam said confidentially. \"Because\nthis morning papa was putting on his winter underclothes and he found it\nwasn't there, and they looked all over and everywhere, and he was pretty\nmad, and said he knew it was those cheap plumbers stole it that mamma\ngot instead of the regular plumbers he always used to have, and he said\nthere wasn't any chance ever gettin' it back, because you couldn't tell\nwhich one took it, and they'd all swear it wasn't them. So it looks like\nwe could keep it for our revolaver, Penrod, don't it? I'll give you half\nof it.\"\n\nPenrod affected some enthusiasm. \"Sam, we'll keep it out here in the\nstable.\"\n\n\"Yes, and we'll go huntin' with it. We'll do lots of things with it!\"\nBut Sam made no effort to take it, and neither boy seemed to feel\nyesterday's necessity to show the other how he did. \"Wait till next\nFourth o' July!\" Sam continued. \"Oh, oh! Look out!\"\n\nThis incited a genuine spark from Penrod.\n\n\"Fourth o' July! I guess she'll be a little better than any\nfirecrackers! Just a little 'Bing!' Bing! Bing!' she'll be goin'. 'Bing!\nBing! Bing!'\"\n\nThe suggestion of noise stirred his comrade. \"I'll bet she'll go off\nlouder'n that time the gas-works blew up! I wouldn't be afraid to shoot\nher off ANY time.\"\n\n\"I bet you would,\" said Penrod. \"You aren't used to revolavers the way\nI--\"\n\n\"You aren't, either!\" Sam exclaimed promptly, \"I wouldn't be any more\nafraid to shoot her off than you would.\"\n\n\"You would, too!\"\n\n\"I would not!\"\n\n\"Well, let's see you then; you talk so much!\" And Penrod handed the\nweapon scornfully to Sam, who at once became less self-assertive.\n\n\"I'd shoot her off in a minute,\" Sam said, \"only it might break\nsumpthing if it hit it.\"\n\n\"Hold her up in the air, then. It can't hurt the roof, can it?\"\n\nSam, with a desperate expression, lifted the revolver at arm's length.\nBoth boys turned away their heads, and Penrod put his fingers in his\nears--but nothing happened. \"What's the matter?\" he demanded. \"Why don't\nyou go on if you're goin' to?\"\n\nSam lowered his arm. \"I guess I didn't have her cocked,\" he said\napologetically, whereupon Penrod loudly jeered.\n\n\"Tryin' to shoot a revolaver and didn't know enough to cock her! If I\ndidn't know any more about revolavers than that, I'd--\"\n\n\"There!\" Sam exclaimed, managing to draw back the hammer until two\nchilling clicks warranted his opinion that the pistol was now ready to\nperform its office. \"I guess she'll do all right to suit you THIS time!\"\n\n\"Well, whyn't you go ahead, then; you know so much!\" And as Sam raised\nhis arm, Penrod again turned away his head and placed his forefingers in\nhis ears.\n\nA pause followed.\n\n\"Why'n't you go ahead?\"\n\nPenrod, after waiting in keen suspense, turned to behold his friend\nstanding with his right arm above his head, his left hand over his left\near, and both eyes closed.\n\n\"I can't pull the trigger,\" said Sam indistinctly, his face convulsed as\nin sympathy with the great muscular efforts of other parts of his body.\n\"She won't pull!\"\n\n\"She won't?\" Penrod remarked with scorn. \"I'll bet _I_ could pull her.\"\n\nSam promptly opened his eyes and handed the weapon to Penrod.\n\n\"All right,\" he said, with surprising and unusual mildness. \"You try\nher, then.\"\n\nInwardly discomfited to a disagreeable extent, Penrod attempted to talk\nhis own misgivings out of countenance.\n\n\"Poor 'ittle baby!\" he said, swinging the pistol at his side with a fair\npretense of careless ease. \"Ain't even strong enough to pull a trigger!\nPoor 'ittle baby! Well, if you can't even do that much, you better watch\nme while _I_--\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Sam reasonably, \"why don't you go on and do it then?\"\n\n\"Well, I AM goin' to, ain't I?\"\n\n\"Well, then, why don't you?\"\n\n\"Oh, I'll do it fast enough to suit YOU, I guess,\" Penrod retorted,\nswinging the big revolver up a little higher than his shoulder and\npointing it in the direction of the double doors, which opened upon the\nalley. \"You better run, Sam,\" he jeered. \"You'll be pretty scared when I\nshoot her off, I guess.\"\n\n\"Well, why don't you SEE if I will? I bet you're afraid yourself.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am, am I?\" said Penrod, in a reckless voice--and his finger\ntouched the trigger. It seemed to him that his finger no more than\ntouched it; perhaps he had been reassured by Sam's assertion that the\ntrigger was difficult. His intentions must remain in doubt, and probably\nPenrod himself was not certain of them; but one thing comes to the\nsurface as entirely definite--that trigger was not so hard to pull as\nSam said it was.\n\nBANG! WH-A-A-ACK! A shattering report split the air of the stable, and\nthere was an orifice of remarkable diameter in the alley door. With\nthese phenomena, three yells, expressing excitement of different kinds,\nwere almost simultaneous--two from within the stable and the third from\na point in the alley about eleven inches lower than the orifice just\nconstructed in the planking of the door. This third point, roughly\nspeaking, was the open mouth of a gayly dressed young coloured man whose\nattention, as he strolled, had been thus violently distracted from some\nmental computations he was making in numbers, including, particularly,\nthose symbols at ecstasy or woe, as the case might be, seven and eleven.\nHis eye at once perceived the orifice on a line enervatingly little\nabove the top of his head; and, although he had not supposed himself\nso well known in this neighbourhood, he was aware that he did, here and\nthere, possess acquaintances of whom some such uncomplimentary action\nmight be expected as natural and characteristic. His immediate procedure\nwas to prostrate himself flat upon the ground, against the stable doors.\n\nIn so doing, his shoulders came brusquely in contact with one of them,\nwhich happened to be unfastened, and it swung open, revealing to his\ngaze two stark-white white boys, one of them holding an enormous pistol\nand both staring at him in stupor of ultimate horror. For, to the glassy\neyes of Penrod and Sam, the stratagem of the young coloured man, thus\ndropping to earth, disclosed, with awful certainty, a slaughtered body.\n\nThis dreadful thing raised itself upon its elbows and looked at them,\nand there followed a motionless moment--a tableau of brief duration, for\nboth boys turned and would have fled, shrieking, but the body spoke:\n\n\"'At's a nice business!\" it said reproachfully. \"Nice business! Tryin'\nblow a man's head off!\"\n\nPenrod was unable to speak, but Sam managed to summon the tremulous\nsemblance of a voice. \"Where--where did it hit you?\" he gasped.\n\n\"Nemmine anything 'bout where it HIT me,\" the young coloured man\nreturned, dusting his breast and knees as he rose. \"I want to know what\nkine o' white boys you think you is--man can't walk 'long street\n'thout you blowin' his head off!\" He entered the stable and, with an\nindignation surely justified, took the pistol from the limp, cold hand\nof Penrod. \"Whose gun you playin' with? Where you git 'at gun?\"\n\n\"It's ours,\" quavered Sam. \"It belongs to us.\"\n\n\"Then you' pa ought to be 'rested,\" said the young coloured man.\n\"Lettin' boys play with gun!\" He examined the revolver with an interest\nin which there began to appear symptoms of a pleasurable appreciation.\n\"My goo'ness! Gun like'iss blow a team o' steers thew a brick house!\nLOOK at 'at gun!\" With his right hand he twirled it in a manner most\ndexterous and surprising; then suddenly he became severe. \"You white\nboy, listen me!\" he said. \"Ef I went an did what I OUGHT to did, I'd\nmarch straight out 'iss stable, git a policeman, an' tell him 'rest you\nan' take you off to jail. 'At's what you need--blowin' man's head off!\nListen me: I'm goin' take 'iss gun an' th'ow her away where you can't do\nno mo' harm with her. I'm goin' take her way off in the woods an' th'ow\nher away where can't nobody fine her an' go blowin' man's head off with\nher. 'At's what I'm goin' do!\" And placing the revolver inside his coat\nas inconspicuously as possible, he proceeded to the open door and into\nthe alley, where he turned for a final word. \"I let you off 'iss one\ntime,\" he said, \"but listen me--you listen, white boy: you bet' not tell\nyou' pa. _I_ ain' goin' tell him, an' YOU ain' goin' tell him. He want\nknow where gun gone, you tell him you los' her.\"\n\nHe disappeared rapidly.\n\nSam Williams, swallowing continuously, presently walked to the alley\ndoor, and remarked in a weak voice, \"I'm sick at my stummick.\" He\npaused, then added more decidedly: \"I'm goin' home. I guess I've stood\nabout enough around here for one day!\" And bestowing a last glance upon\nhis friend, who was now sitting dumbly upon the floor in the exact spot\nwhere he had stood to fire the dreadful shot, Sam moved slowly away.\n\nThe early shades of autumn evening were falling when Penrod emerged from\nthe stable; and a better light might have disclosed to a shrewd eye some\nindications that here was a boy who had been extremely, if temporarily,\nill. He went to the cistern, and, after a cautious glance round the\nreassuring horizon, lifted the iron cover. Then he took from the inner\npocket of his jacket an object which he dropped listlessly into the\nwater: it was a bit of wood, whittled to the likeness of a pistol. And\nthough his lips moved not, nor any sound issued from his vocal organs,\nyet were words formed. They were so deep in the person of Penrod they\ncame almost from the slowly convalescing profundities of his stomach.\nThese words concerned firearms, and they were:\n\n\"Wish I'd never seen one! Never want to see one again!\"\n\nOf course Penrod had no way of knowing that, as regards bingism in\ngeneral, several of the most distinguished old gentlemen in Europe were\nat that very moment in exactly the same state of mind.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. THE IN-OR-IN\n\nGeorgie Bassett was a boy set apart. Not only that; Georgie knew that he\nwas a boy set apart. He would think about it for ten or twenty minutes\nat a time, and he could not look at himself in a mirror and remain\nwholly without emotion. What that emotion was, he would have been unable\nto put into words; but it helped him to understand that there was a\ncertain noble something about him that other boys did not possess.\n\nGeorgie's mother had been the first to discover that Georgie was a\nboy set apart. In fact, Georgie did not know it until one day when he\nhappened to overhear his mother telling two of his aunts about it.\nTrue, he had always understood that he was the best boy in town and\nhe intended to be a minister when he grew up; but he had never before\ncomprehended the full extent of his sanctity, and, from that fraught\nmoment onward, he had an almost theatrical sense of his set-apartness.\n\nPenrod Schofield and Sam Williams and the other boys of the\nneighbourhood all were conscious that there was something different and\nspiritual about Georgie, and, though this consciousness of theirs may\nhave been a little obscure, it was none the less actual. That is to say,\nthey knew that Georgie Bassett was a boy set apart; but they did\nnot know that they knew it. Georgie's air and manner at all times\ndemonstrated to them that the thing was so, and, moreover, their mothers\nabsorbed appreciation of Georgie's wonderfulness from the very fount\nof it, for Mrs. Bassett's conversation was of little else. Thus, the\nradiance of his character became the topic of envious parental comment\nduring moments of strained patience in many homes, so that altogether\nthe most remarkable fact to be stated of Georgie Bassett is that he\nescaped the consequences as long as he did.\n\nStrange as it may seem, no actual violence was done him, except upon the\nincidental occasion of a tar-fight into which he was drawn by an obvious\neccentricity on the part of destiny. Naturally, he was not popular with\nhis comrades; in all games he was pushed aside, and disregarded, being\ninvariably the tail-ender in every pastime in which leaders \"chose\nsides\"; his counsels were slighted as worse than weightless, and all his\nopinions instantly hooted. Still, considering the circumstances fairly\nand thoughtfully, it is difficult to deny that his boy companions showed\ncreditable moderation in their treatment of him. That is, they were\nmoderate up to a certain date, and even then they did not directly\nattack him--there was nothing cold--blooded about it at all. The\nthing was forced upon them, and, though they all felt pleased and\nuplifted--while it was happening--they did not understand precisely why.\nNothing could more clearly prove their innocence of heart than this very\nignorance, and yet none of the grown people who later felt themselves\nconcerned in the matter was able to look at it in that light. Now, here\nwas a characteristic working of those reactions that produce what is\nsometimes called \"the injustice of life\", because the grown people were\nresponsible for the whole affair and were really the guilty parties.\nIt was from grown people that Georgie Bassett learned he was a boy set\napart, and the effect upon him was what alienated his friends. Then\nthese alienated friends were brought (by odious comparisons on the\npart of grown people) to a condition of mind wherein they suffered\ndumb annoyance, like a low fever, whenever they heard Georgie's name\nmentioned, while association with his actual person became every day\nmore and more irritating. And yet, having laid this fuse and having kept\nit constantly glowing, the grown people expected nothing to happen to\nGeorgie.\n\nThe catastrophe befell as a consequence of Sam Williams deciding to have\na shack in his backyard. Sam had somehow obtained a vasty piano-box and\na quantity of lumber, and, summoning Penrod Schofield and the coloured\nbrethren, Herman and Verman, he expounded to them his building-plans\nand offered them shares and benefits in the institution he proposed to\nfound. Acceptance was enthusiastic; straightway the assembly became\na union of carpenters all of one mind, and ten days saw the shack not\ncompleted but comprehensible. Anybody could tell, by that time, that it\nwas intended for a shack.\n\nThere was a door on leather hinges; it drooped, perhaps, but it was a\ndoor. There was a window--not a glass one, but, at least, it could be\n\"looked out of\", as Sam said. There was a chimney made of stovepipe,\nthough that was merely decorative, because the cooking was done out of\ndoors in an underground \"furnace\" that the boys excavated. There were\npictures pasted on the interior walls, and, hanging from a nail, there\nwas a crayon portrait of Sam's grandfather, which he had brought down\nfrom the attic quietly, though, as he said, it \"wasn't any use on earth\nup there.\" There were two lame chairs from Penrod's attic and along\none wall ran a low and feeble structure intended to serve as a bench or\ndivan. This would come in handy, Sam said, if any of the party \"had\nto lay down or anything\", and at a pinch (such as a meeting of the\nassociation) it would serve to seat all the members in a row.\n\nFor, coincidentally with the development of the shack, the builders\nbecame something more than partners. Later, no one could remember who\nfirst suggested the founding of a secret order, or society, as a measure\nof exclusiveness and to keep the shack sacred to members only; but it\nwas an idea that presently began to be more absorbing and satisfactory\nthan even the shack itself. The outward manifestations of it might\nhave been observed in the increased solemnity and preoccupation of the\nCaucasian members and in a few ceremonial observances exposed to the\npublic eye. As an instance of these latter, Mrs. Williams, happening to\nglance from a rearward window, about four o'clock one afternoon, found\nher attention arrested by what seemed to be a flag-raising before the\ndoor of the shack. Sam and Herman and Verman stood in attitudes of rigid\nattention, shoulder to shoulder, while Penrod Schofield, facing them,\nwas apparently delivering some sort of exhortation, which he read from a\nscribbled sheet of foolscap. Concluding this, he lifted from the ground\na long and somewhat warped clothes-prop, from one end of which hung\na whitish flag, or pennon, bearing an inscription. Sam and Herman and\nVerman lifted their right hands, while Penrod placed the other end of\nthe clothes-prop in a hole in the ground, with the pennon fluttering\nhigh above the shack. He then raised his own right hand, and the four\nboys repeated something in concert. It was inaudible to Mrs. Williams;\nbut she was able to make out the inscription upon the pennon. It\nconsisted of the peculiar phrase \"In-Or-In\" done in black paint upon a\nmuslin ground, and consequently seeming to be in need of a blotter.\n\nIt recurred to her mind, later that evening, when she happened to find\nherself alone with Sam in the library, and, in merest idle curiosity,\nshe asked: \"Sam, what does 'In-Or-In' mean?\"\n\nSam, bending over an arithmetic, uncreased his brow till it became of a\nblank and marble smoothness.\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"What are those words on your flag?\"\n\nSam gave her a long, cold, mystic look, rose to his feet and left the\nroom with emphasis and dignity. For a moment she was puzzled. But Sam's\nolder brother was this year completing his education at a university,\nand Mrs. Williams was not altogether ignorant of the obligations of\nsecrecy imposed upon some brotherhoods; so she was able to comprehend\nSam's silent withdrawal, and, instead of summoning him back for further\nquestions, she waited until he was out of hearing and then began to\nlaugh.\n\nSam's action was in obedience to one of the rules adopted, at his own\nsuggestion, as a law of the order. Penrod advocated it warmly. From\nMargaret he had heard accounts of her friends in college and thus had\nlearned much that ought to be done. On the other hand, Herman subscribed\nto it with reluctance, expressing a decided opinion that if he and\nVerman were questioned upon the matter at home and adopted the line of\nconduct required by the new rule, it would be well for them to depart\nnot only from the room in which the questioning took place but from the\nhouse, and hurriedly at that. \"An' STAY away!\" he concluded.\n\nVerman, being tongue-tied--not without advantage in this case, and\nsurely an ideal qualification for membership--was not so apprehensive.\nHe voted with Sam and Penrod, carrying the day.\n\nNew rules were adopted at every meeting (though it cannot be said\nthat all of them were practicable) for, in addition to the information\npossessed by Sam and Penrod, Herman and Verman had many ideas of their\nown, founded upon remarks overheard at home. Both their parents belonged\nto secret orders, their father to the Innapenent 'Nevolent Lodge (so\nstated by Herman) and their mother to the Order of White Doves.\n\nFrom these and other sources, Penrod found no difficulty in compiling\nmaterial for what came to be known as the \"rixual\"; and it was the\nrixual he was reading to the members when Mrs. Williams happened to\nobserve the ceremonial raising of the emblem of the order.\n\nThe rixual contained the oath, a key to the secret language, or code\n(devised by Penrod for use in uncertain emergencies) and passwords for\nadmission to the shack, also instructions for recognizing a brother\nmember in the dark, and a rather alarming sketch of the things to be\ndone during the initiation of a candidate.\n\nThis last was employed for the benefit of Master Roderick Magsworth\nBitts, Junior, on the Saturday following the flag-raising. He presented\nhimself in Sam's yard, not for initiation, indeed--having no previous\nknowledge of the Society of the In-Or-In--but for general purposes\nof sport and pastime. At first sight of the shack he expressed\nanticipations of pleasure, adding some suggestions for improving the\narchitectural effect. Being prevented, however, from entering, and even\nfrom standing in the vicinity of the sacred building, he plaintively\ndemanded an explanation; whereupon he was commanded to withdraw to the\nfront yard for a time, and the members held meeting in the shack. Roddy\nwas elected, and consented to undergo the initiation.\n\nHe was not the only new member that day. A short time after Roddy\nhad been taken into the shack for the reading of the rixual and other\nceremonies, little Maurice Levy entered the Williams' gate and strolled\nround to the backyard, looking for Sam. He was surprised and delighted\nto behold the promising shack, and, like Roddy, entertained fair hopes\nfor the future.\n\nThe door of the shack was closed; a board covered the window, but a\nmurmur of voices came from within. Maurice stole close and listened.\nThrough a crack he could see the flicker of a candle-flame, and he heard\nthe voice of Penrod Schofield:\n\n\"Roddy Bitts, do you solemnly swear?\"\n\n\"Well, all right,\" said the voice of Roddy, somewhat breathless.\n\n\"How many fingers you see before your eyes?\"\n\n\"Can't see any,\" Roddy returned. \"How could I, with this thing over my\neyes, and laying down on my stummick, anyway?\"\n\n\"Then the time has come,\" Penrod announced in solemn tones. \"The time\nhas come.\"\n\nWhack!\n\nEvidently a broad and flat implement was thereupon applied to Roddy.\n\n\"OW!\" complained the candidate.\n\n\"No noise!\" said Penrod sternly, and added: \"Roddy Bitts must now say\nthe oath. Say exackly what I say, Roddy, and if you don't--well, you\nbetter, because you'll see! Now, say 'I solemnly swear--'\"\n\n\"I solemnly swear--\" Roddy said.\n\n\"To keep the secrets--\"\n\n\"To keep the secrets--\" Roddy repeated.\n\n\"To keep the secrets in infadelaty and violate and sanctuary.\"\n\n\"What?\" Roddy naturally inquired.\n\nWhack!\n\n\"OW!\" cried Roddy. \"That's no fair!\"\n\n\"You got to say just what _I_ say,\" Penrod was heard informing him.\n\"That's the rixual, and anyway, even if you do get it right, Verman's\ngot to hit you every now and then, because that's part of the rixual,\ntoo. Now go on and say it. 'I solemnly swear to keep the secrets in\ninfadelaty and violate and sanctuary.\"'\n\n\"I solemnly swear--\" Roddy began.\n\nBut Maurice Levy was tired of being no party to such fascinating\nproceedings, and he began to hammer upon the door.\n\n\"Sam! Sam Williams!\" he shouted. \"Lemme in there! I know lots about\n'nishiatin'. Lemme in!\"\n\nThe door was flung open, revealing Roddy Bitts, blindfolded and bound,\nlying face down upon the floor of the shack; but Maurice had only a\nfugitive glimpse of this pathetic figure before he, too, was recumbent.\nFour boys flung themselves indignantly upon him and bore him to earth.\n\n\"Hi!\" he squealed. \"What you doin'? Haven't you got any SENSE?\"\n\nAnd, from within the shack, Roddy added his own protest.\n\n\"Let me up, can't you?\" he cried. \"I got to see what's goin' on out\nthere, haven't I? I guess I'm not goin' to lay here all DAY! What you\nthink I'm made of?\"\n\n\"You hush up!\" Penrod commanded. \"This is a nice biznuss!\" he continued,\ndeeply aggrieved. \"What kind of a 'nishiation do you expect this is,\nanyhow?\"\n\n\"Well, here's Maurice Levy gone and seen part of the secrets,\" said Sam,\nin a voice of equal plaintiveness. \"Yes; and I bet he was listenin' out\nhere, too!\"\n\n\"Lemme up!\" begged Maurice, half stifled. \"I didn't do any harm to your\nold secrets, did I? Anyways, I just as soon be 'nishiated myself. I\nain't afraid. So if you 'nishiate me, what difference will it make if I\ndid hear a little?\"\n\nStruck with this idea, which seemed reasonable; Penrod obtained silence\nfrom every one except Roddy, and it was decided to allow Maurice to rise\nand retire to the front yard. The brother members then withdrew\nwithin the shack, elected Maurice to the fellowship, and completed the\ninitiation of Mr. Bitts. After that, Maurice was summoned and underwent\nthe ordeal with fortitude, though the newest brother--still tingling\nwith his own experiences--helped to make certain parts of the rixual\nunprecedentedly severe.\n\nOnce endowed with full membership, Maurice and Roddy accepted the\nobligations and privileges of the order with enthusiasm. Both interested\nthemselves immediately in improvements for the shack, and made\nexcursions to their homes to obtain materials. Roddy returned with a\npair of lensless mother-of-pearl opera-glasses, a contribution that led\nto the creation of a new office, called the \"warner\". It was his duty\nto climb upon the back fence once every fifteen minutes and search the\nhorizon for intruders or \"anybody that hasn't got any biznuss around\nhere.\" This post proved so popular, at first, that it was found\nnecessary to provide for rotation in office, and to shorten the\ninterval from fifteen minutes to an indefinite but much briefer period,\ndetermined principally by argument between the incumbent and his\nsuccessor.\n\nAnd Maurice Levy contributed a device so pleasant, and so necessary\nto the prevention of interruption during meetings, that Penrod and\nSam wondered why they had not thought of it themselves long before. It\nconsisted of about twenty-five feet of garden hose in fair condition.\nOne end of it was introduced into the shack through a knothole, and the\nother was secured by wire round the faucet of hydrant in the stable.\nThus, if members of the order were assailed by thirst during an\nimportant session, or in the course of an initiation, it would not be\nnecessary for them all to leave the shack. One could go, instead, and\nwhen he had turned on the water at the hydrant, the members in the shack\ncould drink without leaving their places. It was discovered, also, that\nthe section of hose could be used as a speaking-tube; and though it did\nprove necessary to explain by shouting outside the tube what one had\nsaid into it, still there was a general feeling that it provided another\nmeans of secrecy and an additional safeguard against intrusion. It is\ntrue that during the half-hour immediately following the installation\nof this convenience, there was a little violence among the brothers\nconcerning a question of policy. Sam, Roddy and Verman--Verman\nespecially--wished to use the tube \"to talk through\" and Maurice, Penrod\nand Herman wished to use it \"to drink through.\" As a consequence of the\nsuccess of the latter party, the shack became too damp for habitation\nuntil another day, and several members, as they went home at dusk, might\neasily have been mistaken for survivors of some marine catastrophe.\n\nStill, not every shack is equipped with running water, and exuberance\nbefitted the occasion. Everybody agreed that the afternoon had been one\nof the most successful and important in many weeks. The Order of the\nIn-Or-In was doing splendidly, and yet every brother felt, in his heart,\nthat there was one thing that could spoil it. Against that fatality,\nall were united to protect themselves, the shack, the rixual, the\nopera-glasses and the water-and-speaking tube. Sam spoke not only for\nhimself but for the entire order when he declared, in speeding the last\nparting guest:\n\n\"Well, we got to stick to one thing or we might as well quit! GEORGIE\nBASSETT better not come pokin' around!\"\n\n\"No, SIR!\" said Penrod.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. GEORGIE BECOMES A MEMBER\n\nBut Georgie did. It is difficult to imagine how cause and effect could\nbe more closely and patently related. Inevitably, Georgie did come\npoking around. How was he to refrain when daily, up and down the\nneighbourhood, the brothers strutted with mystic and important airs,\nwhen they whispered together and uttered words of strange import in his\npresence? Thus did they defeat their own object. They desired to keep\nGeorgie at a distance, yet they could not refrain from posing before\nhim. They wished to impress upon him the fact that he was an outsider,\nand they but succeeded in rousing his desire to be an insider, a desire\nthat soon became a determination. For few were the days until he not\nonly knew of the shack but had actually paid it a visit. That was upon a\nmorning when the other boys were in school, Georgie having found himself\nindisposed until about ten o'clock, when he was able to take nourishment\nand subsequently to interest himself in this rather private errand.\nHe climbed the Williams' alley fence, and, having made a modest\ninvestigation of the exterior of the shack, which was padlocked, retired\nwithout having disturbed anything except his own peace of mind. His\ncuriosity, merely piqued before, now became ravenous and painful. It was\nnot allayed by the mystic manners of the members or by the unnecessary\nemphasis they laid upon their coldness toward himself; and when a\ncommittee informed him darkly that there were \"secret orders\" to prevent\nhis coming within \"a hundred and sixteen feet\"--such was Penrod's\narbitrary language--of the Williams' yard, \"in any direction\", Georgie\ncould bear it no longer, but entered his own house, and, in burning\nwords, laid the case before a woman higher up. Here the responsibility\nfor things is directly traceable to grown people. Within that hour, Mrs.\nBassett sat in Mrs. Williams's library to address her hostess upon the\nsubject of Georgie's grievance.\n\n\"Of course, it isn't Sam's fault,\" she said, concluding her\ninterpretation of the affair. \"Georgie likes Sam, and didn't blame\nhim at all. No; we both felt that Sam would always be a polite, nice\nboy--Georgie used those very words--but Penrod seems to have a VERY bad\ninfluence. Georgie felt that Sam would WANT him to come and play in\nthe shack if Penrod didn't make Sam do everything HE wants. What hurt\nGeorgie most is that it's SAM'S shack, and he felt for another boy to\ncome and tell him that he mustn't even go NEAR it--well, of course, it\nwas very trying. And he's very much hurt with little Maurice Levy, too.\nHe said that he was sure that even Penrod would be glad to have him for\na member of their little club if it weren't for Maurice--and I think he\nspoke of Roddy Bitts, too.\"\n\nThe fact that the two remaining members were coloured was omitted\nfrom this discourse which leads to the deduction that Georgie had not\nmentioned it.\n\n\"Georgie said all the other boys liked him very much,\" Mrs. Bassett\ncontinued, \"and that he felt it his duty to join the club, because most\nof them were so anxious to have him, and he is sure he would have a good\ninfluence over them. He really did speak of it in quite a touching way,\nMrs. Williams. Of course, we mothers mustn't brag of our sons too much,\nbut Georgie REALLY isn't like other boys. He is so sensitive, you can't\nthink how this little affair has hurt him, and I felt that it might even\nmake him ill. You see, I HAD to respect his reason for wanting to\njoin the club. And if I AM his mother\"--she gave a deprecating little\nlaugh--\"I must say that it seems noble to want to join not really for\nhis own sake but for the good that he felt his influence would have over\nthe other boys. Don't you think so, Mrs. Williams?\"\n\nMrs. Williams said that she did, indeed. And the result of this\ninterview was another, which took place between Sam and his father that\nevening, for Mrs. Williams, after talking to Sam herself, felt that the\nmatter needed a man to deal with it. The man did it man-fashion.\n\n\"You either invite Georgie Bassett to play in the shack all he wants\nto,\" the man said, \"or the shack comes down.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"Take your choice. I'm not going to have neighbourhood quarrels over\nsuch--\"\n\n\"But, Papa--\"\n\n\"That's enough! You said yourself you haven't anything against Georgie.\"\n\n\"I said--\"\n\n\"You said you didn't like him, but you couldn't tell why. You couldn't\nstate a single instance of bad behaviour against him. You couldn't\nmention anything he ever did which wasn't what a gentleman should have\ndone. It's no use, I tell you. Either you invite Georgie to play in the\nshack as much as he likes next Saturday, or the shack comes down.\"\n\n\"But, PAPA--\"\n\n\"I'm not going to talk any more about it. If you want the shack pulled\ndown and hauled away, you and your friends continue to tantalize this\ninoffensive little boy the way you have been. If you want to keep it, be\npolite and invite him in.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"That's ALL, I said!\"\n\nSam was crushed.\n\nNext day he communicated the bitter substance of the edict to the other\nmembers, and gloom became unanimous. So serious an aspect did the affair\npresent that it was felt necessary to call a special meeting of the\norder after school. The entire membership was in attendance; the door\nwas closed, the window covered with a board, and the candle lighted.\nThen all of the brothers--except one--began to express their sorrowful\napprehensions. The whole thing was spoiled, they agreed, if Georgie\nBassett had to be taken in. On the other hand, if they didn't take him\nin, \"there wouldn't be anything left.\" The one brother who failed to\nexpress any opinion was little Verman. He was otherwise occupied.\n\nVerman had been the official paddler during the initiations of Roddy\nBitts and Maurice Levy; his work had been conscientious, and it seemed\nto be taken by consent that he was to continue in office. An old shingle\nfrom the woodshed roof had been used for the exercise of his function in\nthe cases of Roddy and Maurice; but this afternoon he had brought\nwith him a new one that he had picked up somewhere. It was broader and\nthicker than the old one and, during the melancholy prophecies of his\nfellows, he whittled the lesser end of it to the likeness of a handle.\nThus engaged, he bore no appearance of despondency; on the contrary, his\neyes, shining brightly in the candlelight, indicated that eager thoughts\npossessed him, while from time to time the sound of a chuckle issued\nfrom his simple African throat. Gradually the other brothers began to\nnotice his preoccupation, and one by one they fell silent, regarding him\nthoughtfully. Slowly the darkness of their countenances lifted a little;\nsomething happier and brighter began to glimmer from each boyish face.\nAll eyes remained fascinated upon Verman.\n\n\"Well, anyway,\" said Penrod, in a tone that was almost cheerful, \"this\nis only Tuesday. We got pretty near all week to fix up the 'nishiation\nfor Saturday.\"\n\nAnd Saturday brought sunshine to make the occasion more tolerable for\nboth the candidate and the society. Mrs. Williams, going to the window\nto watch Sam when he left the house after lunch, marked with pleasure\nthat his look and manner were sprightly as he skipped down the walk to\nthe front gate. There he paused and yodelled for a time. An answering\nyodel came presently; Penrod Schofield appeared, and by his side walked\nGeorgie Bassett. Georgie was always neat; but Mrs. Williams noticed that\nhe exhibited unusual gloss and polish to-day. As for his expression,\nit was a shade too complacent under the circumstances, though, for that\nmatter, perfect tact avoids an air of triumph under any circumstances.\nMrs. Williams was pleased to observe that Sam and Penrod betrayed no\nresentment whatever; they seemed to have accepted defeat in a good\nspirit and to be inclined to make the best of Georgie. Indeed, they\nappeared to be genuinely excited about him--it was evident that their\ncordiality was eager and wholehearted.\n\nThe three boys conferred for a few moments; then Sam disappeared round\nthe house and returned, waving his hand and nodding. Upon that, Penrod\ntook Georgie's left arm, Sam took his right, and the three marched off\nto the backyard in a companionable way that made Mrs. Williams feel it\nhad been an excellent thing to interfere a little in Georgie's interest.\n\nExperiencing the benevolent warmth that comes of assisting in a good\naction, she ascended to an apartment upstairs, and, for a couple of\nhours, employed herself with needle and thread in sartorial repairs on\nbehalf of her husband and Sam. Then she was interrupted by the advent of\na coloured serving-maid.\n\n\"Miz Williams, I reckon the house goin' fall down!\" this pessimist said,\narriving out of breath. \"That s'iety o' Mist' Sam's suttenly tryin' to\npull the roof down on ow haids!\"\n\n\"The roof?\" Mrs. Williams inquired mildly. \"They aren't in the attic,\nare they?\"\n\n\"No'm; they in the celluh, but they REACHIN' fer the roof! I nev'\ndid hear no sech a rumpus an' squawkin' an' squawlin' an' fallin' an'\nwhoopin' an' whackin' an' bangin'! They troop down by the outside celluh\ndo', n'en--bang!--they bus' loose, an' been goin' on ev' since, wuss'n\nBedlun! Ef they anything down celluh ain' broke by this time, it cain'\nbe only jes' the foundashum, an' I bet THAT ain' goin' stan' much\nlonger! I'd gone down an' stop 'em, but I'm 'fraid to. Hones', Miz\nWilliams, I'm 'fraid o' my life go down there, all that Bedlun goin' on.\nI thought I come see what you say.\"\n\nMrs. Williams laughed.\n\n\"We have to stand a little noise in the house sometimes, Fanny, when\nthere are boys. They're just playing, and a lot of noise is usually a\npretty safe sign.\"\n\n\"Yes'm,\" Fanny said. \"It's yo' house, Miz Williams, not mine. You want\n'em tear it down, I'm willin'.\"\n\nShe departed, and Mrs. Williams continued to sew. The days were growing\nshort, and at five o'clock she was obliged to put the work aside, as her\neyes did not permit her to continue it by artificial light. Descending\nto the lower floor, she found the house silent, and when she opened the\nfront door to see if the evening paper had come, she beheld Sam, Penrod\nand Maurice Levy standing near the gate engaged in quiet conversation.\nPenrod and Maurice departed while she was looking for the paper, and Sam\ncame thoughtfully up the walk.\n\n\"Well, Sam,\" she said, \"it wasn't such a bad thing, after all, to show a\nlittle politeness to Georgie Bassett, was it?\"\n\nSam gave her a non-committal look--expression of every kind had been\nwiped from his countenance. He presented a blank surface.\n\n\"No'm,\" he said meekly.\n\n\"Everything was just a little pleasanter because you'd been friendly,\nwasn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes'm.\"\n\n\"Has Georgie gone home?\"\n\n\"Yes'm.\"\n\n\"I hear you made enough noise in the cellar--Did Georgie have a good\ntime?\"\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"Did Georgie Bassett have a good time?\"\n\n\"Well\"--Sam now had the air of a person trying to remember details with\nabsolute accuracy--\"well, he didn't say he did, and he didn't say he\ndidn't.\"\n\n\"Didn't he thank the boys?\"\n\n\"No'm.\"\n\n\"Didn't he even thank you?\"\n\n\"No'm.\"\n\n\"Why, that's queer,\" she said. \"He's always so polite. He SEEMED to be\nhaving a good time, didn't he, Sam?\"\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"Didn't Georgie seem to be enjoying himself?\"\n\nThis question, apparently so simple, was not answered with promptness.\nSam looked at his mother in a puzzled way, and then he found it\nnecessary to rub each of his shins in turn with the palm of his right\nhand.\n\n\"I stumbled,\" he said apologetically. \"I stumbled on the cellar steps.\"\n\n\"Did you hurt yourself?\" she asked quickly.\n\n\"No'm; but I guess maybe I better rub some arnica--\"\n\n\"I'll get it,\" she said. \"Come up to your father's bathroom, Sam. Does\nit hurt much?\"\n\n\"No'm,\" he answered truthfully, \"it hardly hurts at all.\"\n\nAnd having followed her to the bathroom, he insisted, with unusual\ngentleness, that he be left to apply the arnica to the alleged injuries\nhimself. He was so persuasive that she yielded, and descended to the\nlibrary, where she found her husband once more at home after his day's\nwork.\n\n\"Well?\" he said. \"Did Georgie show up, and were they decent to him?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; it's all right. Sam and Penrod were good as gold. I saw them\nbeing actually cordial to him.\"\n\n\"That's well,\" Mr. Williams said, settling into a chair with his paper.\n\"I was a little apprehensive, but I suppose I was mistaken. I walked\nhome, and just now, as I passed Mrs. Bassett's, I saw Doctor Venny's\ncar in front, and that barber from the corner shop on Second Street was\ngoing in the door. I couldn't think what a widow would need a barber\nand a doctor for--especially at the same time. I couldn't think what\nGeorgie'd need such a combination for either, and then I got afraid that\nmaybe--\"\n\nMrs. Williams laughed. \"Oh, no; it hasn't anything to do with his having\nbeen over here. I'm sure they were very nice to him.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm glad of that.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed--\" Mrs. Williams began, when Fanny appeared, summoning her\nto the telephone.\n\nIt is pathetically true that Mrs. Williams went to the telephone humming\na little song. She was detained at the instrument not more than five\nminutes; then she made a plunging return into the library, a blanched\nand stricken woman. She made strange, sinister gestures at her husband.\n\nHe sprang up, miserably prophetic. \"Mrs. Bassett?\"\n\n\"Go to the telephone,\" Mrs. Williams said hoarsely \"She wants to talk\nto you, too. She CAN'T talk much--she's hysterical. She says they lured\nGeorgie into the cellar and had him beaten by negroes! That's not all--\"\n\nMr. Williams was already on his way.\n\n\"You find Sam!\" he commanded, over his shoulder.\n\nMrs. Williams stepped into the front hall. \"Sam!\" she called, addressing\nthe upper reaches of the stairway. \"Sam!\"\n\nNot even echo answered.\n\n\"SAM!\"\n\nA faint clearing of somebody's throat was heard behind her, a sound so\nmodest and unobtrusive it was no more than just audible, and, turning,\nthe mother beheld her son sitting upon the floor in the shadow of the\nstairs and gazing meditatively at the hatrack. His manner indicated that\nhe wished to produce the impression that he had been sitting there, in\nthis somewhat unusual place and occupation, for a considerable time, but\nwithout overhearing anything that went on in the library so close by.\n\n\"Sam,\" she cried, \"what have you DONE?\"\n\n\"Well--I guess my legs are all right,\" he said gently. \"I got the arnica\non, so probably they won't hurt any m--\"\n\n\"Stand up!\" she said.\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"March into the library!\"\n\nSam marched--slow-time. In fact, no funeral march has been composed in\na time so slow as to suit this march of Sam's. One might have suspected\nthat he was in a state of apprehension.\n\nMr. Williams entered at one door as his son crossed the threshold of the\nother, and this encounter was a piteous sight. After one glance at his\nfather's face, Sam turned desperately, as if to flee outright. But Mrs.\nWilliams stood in the doorway behind him.\n\n\"You come here!\" And the father's voice was as terrible as his face.\n\"WHAT DID YOU DO TO GEORGIE BASSETT?\"\n\n\"Nothin',\" Sam gulped; \"nothin' at all.\"\n\n\"What!\"\n\n\"We just--we just 'nishiated him.\"\n\nMr. Williams turned abruptly, walked to the fireplace, and there turned\nagain, facing the wretched Sam. \"That's all you did?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Georgie Bassett's mother has just told me over the telephone,\" Mr.\nWilliams said, deliberately, \"that you and Penrod Schofield and Roderick\nBitts and Maurice Levy LURED GEORGIE INTO THE CELLAR AND HAD HIM BEATEN\nBY NEGROES!\"\n\nAt this, Sam was able to hold up his head a little and to summon a\nrather feeble indignation.\n\n\"It ain't so,\" he declared. \"We didn't any such thing lower him into the\ncellar. We weren't goin' NEAR the cellar with him. We never THOUGHT of\ngoin' down cellar. He went down there himself, first.\"\n\n\"So! I suppose he was running away from you, poor thing! Trying to\nescape from you, wasn't he?\"\n\n\"He wasn't,\" Sam said doggedly. \"We weren't chasin' him--or anything at\nall.\"\n\n\"Then why did he go in the cellar?\"\n\n\"Well, he didn't exactly GO in the cellar,\" Sam said reluctantly.\n\n\"Well, how did he GET in the cellar, then?\"\n\n\"He--he fell in,\" said Sam.\n\n\"HOW did he fall in?\"\n\n\"Well, the door was open, and--well, he kept walkin' around there, and\nwe hollered at him to keep away, but just then he kind of--well, the\nfirst _I_ noticed was I couldn't SEE him, and so we went and looked down\nthe steps, and he was sitting down there on the bottom step and kind of\nshouting, and--\"\n\n\"See here!\" Mr. Williams interrupted. \"You're going to make a clean\nbreast of this whole affair and take the consequences. You're going to\ntell it and tell it ALL. Do you understand that?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Then you tell me how Georgie Bassett fell down the cellar steps--and\ntell me quick!\"\n\n\"He--he was blindfolded.\"\n\n\"Aha! NOW we're getting at it. You begin at the beginning and tell me\njust what you did to him from the time he got here. Understand?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Go on, then!\"\n\n\"Well, I'm goin' to,\" Sam protested. \"We never hurt him at all. He\nwasn't even hurt when he fell down cellar. There's a lot of mud down\nthere, because the cellar door leaks, and--\"\n\n\"Sam!\" Mr. Williams's tone was deadly. \"Did you hear me tell you to\nbegin at the beginning?\"\n\nSam made a great effort and was able to obey.\n\n\"Well, we had everything ready for the 'nishiation before lunch,\" he\nsaid. \"We wanted it all to be nice, because you said we had to have him,\npapa, and after lunch Penrod went to guard him--that's a new part in the\nrixual--and he brought him over, and we took him out to the shack and\nblindfolded him, and--well, he got kind of mad because we wanted him\nto lay down on his stummick and be tied up, and he said he wouldn't,\nbecause the floor was a little bit wet in there and he could feel it\nsort of squashy under his shoes, and he said his mother didn't want him\never to get dirty and he just wouldn't do it; and we all kept telling\nhim he had to, or else how could there be any 'nishiation; and he kept\ngettin' madder and said he wanted to have the 'nishiation outdoors where\nit wasn't wet and he wasn't goin' to lay down on his stummick, anyway.\"\nSam paused for wind, then got under way again: \"Well, some of the boys\nwere tryin' to get him to lay down on his stummick, and he kind of fell\nup against the door and it came open and he ran out in the yard. He was\ntryin' to get the blindfold off his eyes, but he couldn't because it\nwas a towel in a pretty hard knot; and he went tearin' all around the\nbackyard, and we didn't chase him, or anything. All we did was just\nwatch him--and that's when he fell in the cellar. Well, it didn't hurt\nhim any. It didn't hurt him at all; but he was muddier than what he\nwould of been if he'd just had sense enough to lay down in the shack.\nWell, so we thought, long as he was down in the cellar anyway, we might\nas well have the rest of the 'nishiation down there. So we brought the\nthings down and--and 'nishiated him--and that's all. That's every bit we\ndid to him.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" Mr. Williams said sardonically; \"I see. What were the details of\nthe initiation?\"\n\n\"Sir?\"\n\n\"I want to know what else you did to him? What was the initiation?\"\n\n\"It's--it's secret,\" Sam murmured piteously.\n\n\"Not any longer, I assure you! The society is a thing of the past and\nyou'll find your friend Penrod's parents agree with me in that. Mrs.\nBassett had already telephoned them when she called us up. You go on\nwith your story!\"\n\nSam sighed deeply, and yet it may have been a consolation to know that\nhis present misery was not altogether without its counterpart. Through\nthe falling dusk his spirit may have crossed the intervening distance\nto catch a glimpse of his friend suffering simultaneously and standing\nwithin the same peril. And if Sam's spirit did thus behold Penrod in\njeopardy, it was a true vision.\n\n\"Go on!\" Mr. Williams said.\n\n\"Well, there wasn't any fire in the furnace because it's too warm\nyet, and we weren't goin' to do anything'd HURT him, so we put him in\nthere--\"\n\n\"In the FURNACE?\"\n\n\"It was cold,\" Sam protested. \"There hadn't been any fire there since\nlast spring. Course we told him there was fire in it. We HAD to\ndo that,\" he continued earnestly, \"because that was part of the\n'nishiation. We only kept him in it a little while and kind of hammered\non the outside a little and then we took him out and got him to lay down\non his stummick, because he was all muddy anyway, where he fell down the\ncellar; and how could it matter to anybody that had any sense at all?\nWell, then we had the rixual, and--and--why, the teeny little paddlin'\nhe got wouldn't hurt a flea! It was that little coloured boy lives in\nthe alley did it--he isn't anyways near HALF Georgie's size but Georgie\ngot mad and said he didn't want any ole nigger to paddle him. That's\nwhat he said, and it was his own foolishness, because Verman won't let\nANYBODY call him 'nigger', and if Georgie was goin' to call him that he\nought to had sense enough not to do it when he was layin' down that way\nand Verman all ready to be the paddler. And he needn't of been so mad at\nthe rest of us, either, because it took us about twenty minutes to get\nthe paddle away from Verman after that, and we had to lock Verman up\nin the laundry-room and not let him out till it was all over. Well, and\nthen things were kind of spoiled, anyway; so we didn't do but just a\nlittle more--and that's all.\"\n\n\"Go on! What was the 'just a little more?'\"\n\n\"Well--we got him to swaller a little teeny bit of asafidity that Penrod\nused to have to wear in a bag around his neck. It wasn't enough to even\nmake a person sneeze--it wasn't much more'n a half a spoonful--it wasn't\nhardly a QUARTER of a spoonf--\"\n\n\"Ha!\" said Mr. Williams. \"That accounts for the doctor. What else?\"\n\n\"Well--we--we had some paint left over from our flag, and we put just a\nlittle teeny bit of it on his hair and--\"\n\n\"Ha!\" said Mr. Williams. \"That accounts for the barber. What else?\"\n\n\"That's all,\" Sam said, swallowing. \"Then he got mad and went home.\"\n\nMr. Williams walked to the door, and sternly motioned to the culprit to\nprecede him through it. But just before the pair passed from her sight,\nMrs. Williams gave way to an uncontrollable impulse.\n\n\"Sam,\" she asked, \"what does 'In-Or-In' stand for?\"\n\nThe unfortunate boy had begun to sniffle.\n\n\"It--it means--Innapenent Order of Infadelaty,\" he moaned--and plodded\nonward to his doom.\n\nNot his alone: at that very moment Master Roderick Magsworth Bitts,\nJunior, was suffering also, consequent upon telephoning on the part of\nMrs. Bassett, though Roderick's punishment was administered less on\nthe ground of Georgie's troubles and more on that of Roddy's having\naffiliated with an order consisting so largely of Herman and Verman. As\nfor Maurice Levy, he was no whit less unhappy. He fared as ill.\n\nSimultaneously, two ex-members of the In-Or-In were finding their lot\nfortunate. Something had prompted them to linger in the alley in\nthe vicinity of the shack, and it was to this fated edifice that Mr.\nWilliams, with demoniac justice, brought Sam for the deed he had in\nmind.\n\nHerman and Verman listened--awe-stricken--to what went on within the\nshack. Then, before it was over, they crept away and down the alley\ntoward their own home. This was directly across the alley from the\nSchofields' stable, and they were horrified at the sounds that issued\nfrom the interior of the stable store-room. It was the St. Bartholomew's\nEve of that neighbourhood.\n\n\"Man, man!\" said Herman, shaking his head. \"Glad I ain' no white boy!\"\n\nVerman seemed gloomily to assent.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. WHITEY\n\nPenrod and Sam made a gloomy discovery one morning in mid-October. All\nthe week had seen amiable breezes and fair skies until Saturday, when,\nabout breakfast-time, the dome of heaven filled solidly with gray vapour\nand began to drip. The boys' discovery was that there is no justice\nabout the weather.\n\nThey sat in the carriage-house of the Schofields' empty stable; the\ndoors upon the alley were open, and Sam and Penrod stared torpidly at\nthe thin but implacable drizzle that was the more irritating because\nthere was barely enough of it to interfere with a number of things they\nhad planned to do.\n\n\"Yes; this is NICE!\" Sam said, in a tone of plaintive sarcasm. \"This is\na PERTY way to do!\" (He was alluding to the personal spitefulness of\nthe elements.) \"I'd like to know what's the sense of it--ole sun pourin'\ndown every day in the week when nobody needs it, then cloud up and rain\nall Saturday! My father said it's goin' to be a three days' rain.\"\n\n\"Well, nobody with any sense cares if it rains Sunday and Monday,\"\nPenrod said. \"I wouldn't care if it rained every Sunday as long I lived;\nbut I just like to know what's the reason it had to go and rain to-day.\nGot all the days o' the week to choose from and goes and picks on\nSaturday. That's a fine biz'nuss!\"\n\n\"Well, in vacation--\" Sam began; but at a sound from a source invisible\nto him he paused. \"What's that?\" he said, somewhat startled.\n\nIt was a curious sound, loud and hollow and unhuman, yet it seemed to be\na cough. Both boys rose, and Penrod asked uneasily: \"Where'd that noise\ncome from?\"\n\n\"It's in the alley,\" said Sam.\n\nPerhaps if the day had been bright, both of them would have stepped\nimmediately to the alley doors to investigate; but their actual\nprocedure was to move a little distance in the opposite direction. The\nstrange cough sounded again.\n\n\"SAY!\" Penrod quavered. \"What IS that?\"\n\nThen both boys uttered smothered exclamations and jumped, for the long,\ngaunt head that appeared in the doorway was entirely unexpected. It was\nthe cavernous and melancholy head of an incredibly thin, old, whitish\nhorse. This head waggled slowly from side to side; the nostrils\nvibrated; the mouth opened, and the hollow cough sounded again.\n\nRecovering themselves, Penrod and Sam underwent the customary human\nreaction from alarm to indignation.\n\n\"What you want, you ole horse, you?\" Penrod shouted. \"Don't you come\ncoughin' around ME!\"\n\nAnd Sam, seizing a stick, hurled it at the intruder.\n\n\"Get out o' here!\" he roared.\n\nThe aged horse nervously withdrew his head, turned tail, and made a\nrickety flight up the alley, while Sam and Penrod, perfectly obedient\nto inherited impulse, ran out into the drizzle and uproariously pursued.\nThey were but automatons of instinct, meaning no evil. Certainly they\ndid not know the singular and pathetic history of the old horse who\nwandered into the alley and ventured to look through the open door.\n\nThis horse, about twice the age of either Penrod or Sam, had lived\nto find himself in a unique position. He was nude, possessing neither\nharness nor halter; all he had was a name, Whitey, and he would have\nanswered to it by a slight change of expression if any one had thus\nproperly addressed him. So forlorn was Whitey's case, he was actually an\nindependent horse; he had not even an owner. For two days and a half he\nhad been his own master.\n\nPrevious to that period he had been the property of one Abalene Morris,\na person of colour, who would have explained himself as engaged in\nthe hauling business. On the contrary, the hauling business was an\ninsignificant side line with Mr. Morris, for he had long ago given\nhimself, as utterly as fortune permitted, to the talent that early in\nyouth he had recognized as the greatest of all those surging in his\nbosom. In his waking thoughts and in his dreams, in health and in\nsickness, Abalene Morris was the dashing and emotional practitioner\nof an art probably more than Roman in antiquity. Abalene was a\ncrap-shooter. The hauling business was a disguise.\n\nA concentration of events had brought it about that, at one and the\nsame time, Abalene, after a dazzling run of the dice, found the hauling\nbusiness an actual danger to the preservation of his liberty. He won\nseventeen dollars and sixty cents, and within the hour found himself\nin trouble with an officer of the Humane Society on account of an\naltercation with Whitey. Abalene had been offered four dollars for\nWhitey some ten days earlier; wherefore he at once drove to the shop of\nthe junk-dealer who had made the offer and announced his acquiescence in\nthe sacrifice.\n\n\"No, suh!\" the junk-dealer said, with emphasis, \"I awready done got me\na good mule fer my deliv'ry hoss, 'n'at ole Whitey hoss ain' wuff no fo'\ndollah nohow! I 'uz a fool when I talk 'bout th'owin' money roun' that\na-way. _I_ know what YOU up to, Abalene. Man come by here li'l bit\nago tole me all 'bout white man try to 'rest you, ovah on the avvynoo.\nYessuh; he say white man goin' to git you yit an' th'ow you in jail\n'count o' Whitey. White man tryin' to fine out who you IS. He say,\nnemmine, he'll know Whitey ag'in, even if he don' know you! He say he\nketch you by the hoss; so you come roun' tryin' fix me up with Whitey\nso white man grab me, th'ow ME in 'at jail. G'on 'way f'um hyuh, you\nAbalene! You cain' sell an' you cain' give Whitey to no cullud man 'n\n'is town. You go an' drowned 'at ole hoss, 'cause you sutny goin' to\njail if you git ketched drivin' him.\"\n\nThe substance of this advice seemed good to Abalene, especially as the\nseventeen dollars and sixty cents in his pocket lent sweet colours to\nlife out of jail at this time. At dusk he led Whitey to a broad common\nat the edge of town, and spoke to him finally.\n\n\"G'on 'bout you biz'nis,\" said Abalene; \"you ain' MY hoss. Don' look\nroun'at me, 'cause _I_ ain't got no 'quaintance wif you. I'm a man o'\nmoney, an' I got my own frien's; I'm a-lookin' fer bigger cities, hoss.\nYou got you biz'nis an' I got mine. Mista' Hoss, good-night!\"\n\nWhitey found a little frosted grass upon the common and remained there\nall night. In the morning he sought the shed where Abalene had kept him;\nbut that was across the large and busy town, and Whitey was hopelessly\nlost. He had but one eye, a feeble one, and his legs were not to be\ndepended upon; but he managed to cover a great deal of ground, to\nhave many painful little adventures, and to get monstrously hungry and\nthirsty before he happened to look in upon Penrod and Sam.\n\nWhen the two boys chased him up the alley they had no intention to cause\npain; they had no intention at all. They were no more cruel than Duke,\nPenrod's little old dog, who followed his own instincts, and, making his\nappearance hastily through a hole in the back fence, joined the pursuit\nwith sound and fury. A boy will nearly always run after anything that\nis running, and his first impulse is to throw a stone at it. This is a\nsurvival of primeval man, who must take every chance to get his dinner.\nSo, when Penrod and Sam drove the hapless Whitey up the alley, they were\nreally responding to an impulse thousands and thousands of years old--an\nimpulse founded upon the primordial observation that whatever runs is\nlikely to prove edible. Penrod and Sam were not \"bad\"; they were never\nthat. They were something that was not their fault; they were historic.\n\nAt the next corner Whitey turned to the right into the cross-street;\nthence, turning to the right again and still warmly pursued,\nhe zigzagged down a main thoroughfare until he reached another\ncross-street, which ran alongside the Schofields' yard and brought him\nto the foot of the alley he had left behind in his flight. He entered\nthe alley, and there his dim eye fell upon the open door he had\npreviously investigated. No memory of it remained; but the place had a\nlook associated in his mind with hay, and, as Sam and Penrod turned\nthe corner of the alley in panting yet still vociferous pursuit, Whitey\nstumbled up the inclined platform before the open doors, staggered\nthunderously across the carriage-house and through another open door\ninto a stall, an apartment vacant since the occupancy of Mr. Schofield's\nlast horse, now several years deceased.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. SALVAGE\n\nThe two boys shrieked with excitement as they beheld the coincidence of\nthis strange return. They burst into the stable, making almost as much\nnoise as Duke, who had become frantic at the invasion. Sam laid hands\nupon a rake.\n\n\"You get out o' there, you ole horse, you!\" he bellowed. \"I ain't afraid\nto drive him out. I--\"\n\n\"WAIT a minute!\" Penrod shouted. \"Wait till I--\"\n\nSam was manfully preparing to enter the stall.\n\n\"You hold the doors open,\" he commanded, \"so's they won't blow shut and\nkeep him in here. I'm goin' to hit him--\"\n\n\"Quee-YUT!\" Penrod shouted, grasping the handle of the rake so that Sam\ncould not use it. \"Wait a MINUTE, can't you?\" He turned with ferocious\nvoice and gestures upon Duke. \"DUKE!\" And Duke, in spite of his\nexcitement, was so impressed that he prostrated himself in silence, and\nthen unobtrusively withdrew from the stable. Penrod ran to the alley\ndoors and closed them.\n\n\"My gracious!\" Sam protested. \"What you goin' to do?\"\n\n\"I'm goin' to keep this horse,\" said Penrod, whose face showed the\nstrain of a great idea.\n\n\"What FOR?\"\n\n\"For the reward,\" said Penrod simply.\n\nSam sat down in the wheelbarrow and stared at his friend almost with\nawe.\n\n\"My gracious,\" he said, \"I never thought o' that! How--how much do you\nthink we'll get, Penrod?\"\n\nSam's thus admitting himself to a full partnership in the enterprise\nmet no objection from Penrod, who was absorbed in the contemplation of\nWhitey.\n\n\"Well,\" he said judicially, \"we might get more and we might get less.\"\n\nSam rose and joined his friend in the doorway opening upon the two\nstalls. Whitey had preempted the nearer, and was hungrily nuzzling the\nold frayed hollows in the manger.\n\n\"Maybe a hunderd dollars--or sumpthing?\" Sam asked in a low voice.\n\nPenrod maintained his composure and repeated the newfound expression\nthat had sounded well to him a moment before. He recognized it as a\nsymbol of the non--committal attitude that makes people looked up to.\n\"Well\"--he made it slow, and frowned--\"we might get more and we might\nget less.\"\n\n\"More'n a hunderd DOLLARS?\" Sam gasped.\n\n\"Well,\" said Penrod, \"we might get more and we might get less.\" This\ntime, however, he felt the need of adding something. He put a question\nin an indulgent tone, as though he were inquiring, not to add to his own\ninformation but to discover the extent of Sam's. \"How much do you think\nhorses are worth, anyway?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Sam said frankly, and, unconsciously, he added, \"They\nmight be more and they might be less.\"\n\n\"Well, when our ole horse died,\" Penrod said, \"Papa said he wouldn't\ntaken five hunderd dollars for him. That's how much HORSES are worth!\"\n\n\"My gracious!\" Sam exclaimed. Then he had a practical afterthought. \"But\nmaybe he was a better horse than this'n. What colour was he?\"\n\n\"He was bay. Looky here, Sam\"--and now Penrod's manner changed from\nthe superior to the eager--\"you look what kind of horses they have in a\ncircus, and you bet a circus has the BEST horses, don't it? Well, what\nkind of horses do they have in a circus? They have some black and white\nones; but the best they have are white all over. Well, what kind of a\nhorse is this we got here? He's perty near white right now, and I bet if\nwe washed him off and got him fixed up nice he WOULD be white. Well, a\nbay horse is worth five hunderd dollars, because that's what Papa said,\nand this horse--\"\n\nSam interrupted rather timidly.\n\n\"He--he's awful bony, Penrod. You don't guess they'd make any--\"\n\nPenrod laughed contemptuously.\n\n\"Bony! All he needs is a little food and he'll fill right up and look\ngood as ever. You don't know much about horses, Sam, I expect. Why, OUR\nole horse--\"\n\n\"Do you expect he's hungry now?\" asked Sam, staring at Whitey.\n\n\"Let's try him,\" said Penrod. \"Horses like hay and oats the best; but\nthey'll eat most anything.\"\n\n\"I guess they will. He's tryin' to eat that manger up right now, and I\nbet it ain't good for him.\"\n\n\"Come on,\" said Penrod, closing the door that gave entrance to the\nstalls. \"We got to get this horse some drinkin'-water and some good\nfood.\"\n\nThey tried Whitey's appetite first with an autumnal branch that they\nwrenched from a hardy maple in the yard. They had seen horses nibble\nleaves, and they expected Whitey to nibble the leaves of this\nbranch; but his ravenous condition did not allow him time for cool\ndiscriminations. Sam poked the branch at him from the passageway, and\nWhitey, after one backward movement of alarm, seized it venomously.\n\n\"Here! You stop that!\" Sam shouted. \"You stop that, you ole horse, you!\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\" called Penrod from the hydrant, where he was\nfilling a bucket. \"What's he doin' now?\"\n\n\"Doin'! He's eatin' the wood part, too! He's chewin' up sticks as big as\nbaseball bats! He's crazy!\"\n\nPenrod rushed to see this sight, and stood aghast.\n\n\"Take it away from him, Sam!\" he commanded sharply.\n\n\"Go on, take it away from him yourself!\" was the prompt retort of his\ncomrade.\n\n\"You had no biz'nuss to give it to him,\" said Penrod. \"Anybody with any\nsense ought to know it'd make him sick. What'd you want to go and give\nit to him for?\"\n\n\"Well, you didn't say not to.\"\n\n\"Well, what if I didn't? I never said I did, did I? You go on in that\nstall and take it away from him.\"\n\n\"YES, I will!\" Sam returned bitterly. Then, as Whitey had dragged the\nremains of the branch from the manger to the floor of the stall, Sam\nscrambled to the top of the manger and looked over. \"There ain't much\nleft to TAKE away! He's swallered it all except some splinters. Better\ngive him the water to try and wash it down with.\" And, as Penrod\ncomplied, \"My gracious, look at that horse DRINK!\"\n\nThey gave Whitey four buckets of water, and then debated the question of\nnourishment. Obviously, this horse could not be trusted with branches,\nand, after getting their knees black and their backs sodden, they gave\nup trying to pull enough grass to sustain him. Then Penrod remembered\nthat horses like apples, both \"cooking-apples\" and \"eating-apples\", and\nSam mentioned the fact that every autumn his father received a barrel of\n\"cooking-apples\" from a cousin who owned a farm. That barrel was in the\nWilliams' cellar now, and the cellar was providentially supplied with\n\"outside doors,\" so that it could be visited without going through the\nhouse. Sam and Penrod set forth for the cellar.\n\nThey returned to the stable bulging, and, after a discussion of Whitey's\ndigestion (Sam claiming that eating the core and seeds, as Whitey\ndid, would grow trees in his inside) they went back to the cellar for\nsupplies again--and again. They made six trips, carrying each time a\ncapacity cargo of apples, and still Whitey ate in a famished manner.\nThey were afraid to take more apples from the barrel, which began to\nshow conspicuously the result of their raids, wherefore Penrod made an\nunostentatious visit to the cellar of his own house. From the inside he\nopened a window and passed vegetables out to Sam, who placed them in a\nbucket and carried them hurriedly to the stable, while Penrod returned\nin a casual manner through the house. Of his sang-froid under a great\nstrain it is sufficient to relate that, in the kitchen, he said suddenly\nto Della, the cook, \"Oh, look behind you!\" and by the time Della\ndiscovered that there was nothing unusual behind her, Penrod was gone,\nand a loaf of bread from the kitchen table was gone with him.\n\nWhitey now ate nine turnips, two heads of lettuce, one cabbage, eleven\nraw potatoes and the loaf of bread. He ate the loaf of bread last and\nhe was a long time about it; so the boys came to a not unreasonable\nconclusion.\n\n\"Well, sir, I guess we got him filled up at last!\" said Penrod. \"I bet\nhe wouldn't eat a saucer of ice-cream now, if we'd give it to him!\"\n\n\"He looks better to me,\" said Sam, staring critically at Whitey. \"I\nthink he's kind of begun to fill out some. I expect he must like us,\nPenrod; we been doin' a good deal for this horse.\"\n\n\"Well, we got to keep it up,\" Penrod insisted rather pompously. \"Long as\n_I_ got charge o' this horse, he's goin' to get good treatment.\"\n\n\"What we better do now, Penrod?\"\n\nPenrod took on the outward signs of deep thought.\n\n\"Well, there's plenty to DO, all right. I got to think.\"\n\nSam made several suggestions, which Penrod--maintaining his air of\npreoccupation--dismissed with mere gestures.\n\n\"Oh, _I_ know!\" Sam cried finally. \"We ought to wash him so's he'll\nlook whiter'n what he does now. We can turn the hose on him across the\nmanger.\"\n\n\"No; not yet,\" Penrod said. \"It's too soon after his meal. You ought to\nknow that yourself. What we got to do is to make up a bed for him--if he\nwants to lay down or anything.\"\n\n\"Make up a what for him?\" Sam echoed, dumfounded. \"What you talkin'\nabout? How can--\"\n\n\"Sawdust,\" Penrod said. \"That's the way the horse we used to have used\nto have it. We'll make this horse's bed in the other stall, and then he\ncan go in there and lay down whenever he wants to.\"\n\n\"How we goin' to do it?\"\n\n\"Look, Sam; there's the hole into the sawdust-box! All you got to do is\nwalk in there with the shovel, stick the shovel in the hole till it gets\nfull of sawdust, and then sprinkle it around on the empty stall.\"\n\n\"All _I_ got to do!\" Sam cried. \"What are you goin' to do?\"\n\n\"I'm goin' to be right here,\" Penrod answered reassuringly. \"He won't\nkick or anything, and it isn't goin' to take you half a second to slip\naround behind him to the other stall.\"\n\n\"What makes you think he won't kick?\"\n\n\"Well, I KNOW he won't, and, besides, you could hit him with the shovel\nif he tried to. Anyhow, I'll be right here, won't I?\"\n\n\"I don't care where you are,\" Sam said earnestly. \"What difference would\nthat make if he ki--\"\n\n\"Why, you were goin' right in the stall,\" Penrod reminded him. \"When he\nfirst came in, you were goin' to take the rake and--\"\n\n\"I don't care if I was,\" Sam declared. \"I was excited then.\"\n\n\"Well, you can get excited now, can't you?\" his friend urged. \"You can\njust as easy get--\"\n\nHe was interrupted by a shout from Sam, who was keeping his eye upon\nWhitey throughout the discussion.\n\n\"Look! Looky there!\" And undoubtedly renewing his excitement, Sam\npointed at the long, gaunt head beyond the manger. It was disappearing\nfrom view. \"Look!\" Sam shouted. \"He's layin' down!\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Penrod, \"I guess he's goin' to take a nap. If he\nwants to lay down without waitin' for us to get the sawdust fixed for\nhim, that's his lookout, not ours.\"\n\nOn the contrary, Sam perceived a favourable opportunity for action.\n\n\"I just as soon go and make his bed up while he's layin' down,\" he\nvolunteered. \"You climb up on the manger and watch him, Penrod, and I'll\nsneak in the other stall and fix it all up nice for him, so's he can go\nin there any time when he wakes up, and lay down again, or anything;\nand if he starts to get up, you holler and I'll jump out over the other\nmanger.\"\n\nAccordingly, Penrod established himself in a position to observe the\nrecumbent figure. Whitey's breathing was rather laboured but regular,\nand, as Sam remarked, he looked \"better\", even in his slumber. It is not\nto be doubted that although Whitey was suffering from a light attack of\ncolic his feelings were in the main those of contentment. After trouble,\nhe was solaced; after exposure, he was sheltered; after hunger and\nthirst, he was fed and watered. He slept.\n\nThe noon whistles blew before Sam's task was finished; but by the time\nhe departed for lunch there was made a bed of such quality that Whitey\nmust needs have been a born fault-finder if he complained of it. The\nfriends parted, each urging the other to be prompt in returning; but\nPenrod got into threatening difficulties as soon as he entered the\nhouse.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. REWARD OF MERIT\n\n\"Penrod,\" said his mother, \"what did you do with that loaf of bread\nDella says you took from the table?\"\n\n\"Ma'am? WHAT loaf o' bread?\"\n\n\"I believe I can't let you go outdoors this afternoon,\" Mrs. Schofield\nsaid severely. \"If you were hungry, you know perfectly well all you had\nto do was to--\"\n\n\"But I wasn't hungry; I--\"\n\n\"You can explain later,\" Mrs. Schofield said. \"You'll have all\nafternoon.\"\n\nPenrod's heart grew cold.\n\n\"I CAN'T stay in,\" he protested. \"I've asked Sam Williams to come over.\"\n\n\"I'll telephone Mrs. Williams.\"\n\n\"Mamma!\" Penrod's voice became agonized. \"I HAD to give that bread to\na--to a poor ole man. He was starving and so were his children and his\nwife. They were all just STARVING--and they couldn't wait while I took\ntime to come and ask you, Mamma. I got to GO outdoors this afternoon. I\nGOT to! Sam's--\"\n\nShe relented.\n\nIn the carriage-house, half an hour later, Penrod gave an account of the\nepisode.\n\n\"Where'd we been, I'd just like to know,\" he concluded, \"if I hadn't got\nout here this afternoon?\"\n\n\"Well, I guess I could managed him all right,\" Sam said. \"I was in the\npassageway, a minute ago, takin' a look at him. He's standin' up again.\nI expect he wants more to eat.\"\n\n\"Well, we got to fix about that,\" said Penrod. \"But what I mean--if I'd\nhad to stay in the house, where would we been about the most important\nthing in the whole biz'nuss?\"\n\n\"What you talkin' about?\"\n\n\"Well, why can't you wait till I tell you?\" Penrod's tone had become\npeevish. For that matter, so had Sam's; they were developing one of the\nlittle differences, or quarrels, that composed the very texture of their\nfriendship.\n\n\"Well, why don't you tell me, then?\"\n\n\"Well, how can I?\" Penrod demanded. \"You keep talkin' every minute.\"\n\n\"I'm not talkin' NOW, am I?\" Sam protested. \"You can tell me NOW, can't\nyou? I'm not talk--\"\n\n\"You are, too!\" Penrod shouted. \"You talk all the time! You--\"\n\nHe was interrupted by Whitey's peculiar cough. Both boys jumped and\nforgot their argument.\n\n\"He means he wants some more to eat, I bet,\" said Sam.\n\n\"Well, if he does, he's got to wait,\" Penrod declared. \"We got to get\nthe most important thing of all fixed up first.\"\n\n\"What's that, Penrod?\"\n\n\"The reward,\" said Penrod mildly. \"That's what I was tryin' to tell you\nabout, Sam, if you'd ever give me half a chance.\"\n\n\"Well, I DID give you a chance. I kept TELLIN' you to tell me, but--\"\n\n\"You never! You kept sayin'--\"\n\nThey renewed this discussion, protracting it indefinitely; but as\neach persisted in clinging to his own interpretation of the facts, the\nquestion still remains unsettled. It was abandoned, or rather, it merged\ninto another during the later stages of the debate, this other being\nconcerned with which of the debaters had the least \"sense.\" Each made\nthe plain statement that if he were more deficient than his opponent in\nthat regard, self-destruction would be his only refuge. Each declared\nthat he would \"rather die than be talked to death\"; and then, as the\ntwo approached a point bluntly recriminative, Whitey coughed again,\nwhereupon they were miraculously silent, and went into the passageway in\na perfectly amiable manner.\n\n\"I got to have a good look at him, for once,\" Penrod said, as he stared\nfrowningly at Whitey. \"We got to fix up about that reward.\"\n\n\"I want to take a good ole look at him myself,\" Sam said.\n\nAfter supplying Whitey with another bucket of water, they returned to\nthe carriage-house and seated themselves thoughtfully. In truth, they\nwere something a shade more than thoughtful; the adventure to which they\nhad committed themselves was beginning to be a little overpowering. If\nWhitey had been a dog, a goat, a fowl, or even a stray calf, they would\nhave felt equal to him; but now that the earlier glow of their wild\ndaring had disappeared, vague apprehensions stirred. Their \"good look\"\nat Whitey had not reassured them--he seemed large, Gothic and unusual.\n\nWhisperings within them began to urge that for boys to undertake an\nenterprise connected with so huge an animal as an actual horse was\nperilous. Beneath the surface of their musings, dim but ominous\nprophecies moved; both boys began to have the feeling that, somehow,\nthis affair was going to get beyond them and that they would be in heavy\ntrouble before it was over--they knew not why. They knew why no more\nthan they knew why they felt it imperative to keep the fact of Whitey's\npresence in the stable a secret from their respective families; but they\ndid begin to realize that keeping a secret of that size was going to be\nattended with some difficulty. In brief, their sensations were becoming\ncomparable to those of the man who stole a house.\n\nNevertheless, after a short period given to unspoken misgivings, they\nreturned to the subject of the reward. The money-value of bay horses, as\ncompared to white, was again discussed, and each announced his certainty\nthat nothing less than \"a good ole hunderd dollars\" would be offered for\nthe return of Whitey.\n\nBut immediately after so speaking they fell into another silence, due to\nsinking feelings. They had spoken loudly and confidently, and yet they\nknew, somehow, that such things were not to be. According to their\nknowledge, it was perfectly reasonable to suppose that they would\nreceive this fortune; but they frightened themselves in speaking of it.\nThey knew that they COULD not have a hundred dollars for their own. An\noppression, as from something awful and criminal, descended upon them at\nintervals.\n\nPresently, however, they were warmed to a little cheerfulness again by\nPenrod's suggestion that they should put a notice in the paper. Neither\nof them had the slightest idea how to get it there; but such details as\nthat were beyond the horizon; they occupied themselves with the question\nof what their advertisement ought to \"say\". Finding that they differed\nirreconcilably, Penrod went to his cache in the sawdust-box and brought\ntwo pencils and a supply of paper. He gave one of the pencils and\nseveral sheets to Sam; then both boys bent themselves in silence to the\nlabour of practical composition. Penrod produced the briefer\nparagraph. (See Fig. I.) Sam's was more ample. (See Fig. II.)\n------------------[Transcribed from handwritten illustration for Project\nGutenberg:] FIG. I. Reward. White horse in Schofields ally finders got\nhim in Schofields stable and will let him taken away by by (crossed out:\npay) paying for good food he has aten while (crossed out: wat w) while\n(crossed out: wat) waiting and Reward of (crossed out: $100 $20 $15 $5)\n$10.\n\nFIG II. FOND Horse on Saturday morning owner can get him by (crossed\nthrough word, unreadable) replying at stable bhind Mr. Schofield.\nYou will have to proof he is your horse he is whit with hind of brown\n(crossed out: spec) speks and worout (crossed out: tail) tale, he is\ngeting good care and food, reword (crossed out: $100 $20) sevntyfive\ncents to each one or we will keep him lokked up.----------------\n\nNeither Sam nor Penrod showed any interest in what the other\nhad written; but both felt that something praiseworthy had been\naccomplished. Penrod exhaled a sigh, as of relief, and, in a manner he\nhad observed his father use sometimes, he said:\n\n\"Thank goodness, THAT'S off my mind, anyway!\"\n\n\"What we goin' do next, Penrod?\" Sam asked deferentially, the borrowed\nmanner having some effect upon him.\n\n\"I don't know what YOU'RE goin' to do,\" Penrod returned, picking up the\nold cigarbox that had contained the paper and pencils. \"I'M goin' to put\nmine in here, so's it'll come in handy when I haf to get at it.\"\n\n\"Well, I guess I'll keep mine there, too,\" Sam said. Thereupon he\ndeposited his scribbled slip beside Penrod's in the cigarbox, and the\nbox was solemnly returned to the secret place whence it had been taken.\n\n\"There, THAT'S 'tended to!\" Sam said, and, unconsciously imitating his\nfriend's imitation, he gave forth audibly a breath of satisfaction and\nrelief.\n\nBoth boys felt that the financial side of their great affair had been\nconscientiously looked to, that the question of the reward was settled,\nand that everything was proceeding in a businesslike manner. Therefore,\nthey were able to turn their attention to another matter.\n\nThis was the question of Whitey's next meal. After their exploits of\nthe morning, and the consequent imperilment of Penrod, they decided\nthat nothing more was to be done in apples, vegetables or bread; it was\nevident that Whitey must be fed from the bosom of nature.\n\n\"We couldn't pull enough o' that frostbit ole grass in the yard to feed\nhim,\" Penrod said gloomily. \"We could work a week and not get enough to\nmake him swaller more'n about twice. All we got this morning, he blew\nmost of it away. He'd try to scoop it in toward his teeth with his lip,\nand then he'd haf to kind of blow out his breath, and after that all the\ngrass that'd be left was just some wet pieces stickin' to the outsides\nof his face. Well, and you know how he acted about that maple branch. We\ncan't trust him with branches.\"\n\nSam jumped up.\n\n\"_I_ know!\" he cried. \"There's lots of leaves left on the branches. We\ncan give them to him.\"\n\n\"I just said--\"\n\n\"I don't mean the branches,\" Sam explained. \"We'll leave the branches on\nthe trees, but just pull the leaves off the branches and put 'em in the\nbucket and feed 'em to him out of the bucket.\"\n\nPenrod thought this plan worth trying, and for three-quarters of an hour\nthe two boys were busy with the lower branches of various trees in the\nyard. Thus they managed to supply Whitey with a fair quantity of wet\nleaves, which he ate in a perfunctory way, displaying little of his\nearlier enthusiasm. And the work of his purveyors might have been more\ntedious if it had been less damp, for a boy is seldom bored by anything\nthat involves his staying-out in the rain without protection. The\ndrizzle had thickened; the leaves were heavy with water, and at every\njerk the branches sent fat drops over the two collectors. They attained\na noteworthy state of sogginess.\n\nFinally, they were brought to the attention of the authorities indoors,\nand Della appeared upon the back porch.\n\n\"Musther Penrod,\" she called, \"y'r mamma says ye'll c'm in the house\nthis minute an' change y'r shoes an' stockin's an' everythun' else ye\ngot on! D'ye hear me?\"\n\nPenrod, taken by surprise and unpleasantly alarmed, darted away from the\ntree he was depleting and ran for the stable.\n\n\"You tell her I'm dry as toast!\" he shouted over his shoulder.\n\nDella withdrew, wearing the air of a person gratuitously insulted; and\na moment later she issued from the kitchen, carrying an umbrella. She\nopened it and walked resolutely to the stable.\n\n\"She says I'm to bring ye in the house,\" said Della, \"an' I'm goin' to\nbring ye!\"\n\nSam had joined Penrod in the carriage-house, and, with the beginnings\nof an unnamed terror, the two beheld this grim advance. But they did not\nstay for its culmination. Without a word to each other they hurriedly\ntiptoed up the stairs to the gloomy loft, and there they paused,\nlistening.\n\nThey heard Della's steps upon the carriage-house floor.\n\n\"Ah, there's plenty places t'hide in,\" they heard her say; \"but I'll\nshow ye! She tole me to bring ye, and I'm--\"\n\nShe was interrupted by a peculiar sound--loud, chilling, dismal, and\nunmistakably not of human origin. The boys knew it for Whitey's cough;\nbut Della had not their experience. A smothered shriek reached their\nears; there was a scurrying noise, and then, with horror, they heard\nDella's footsteps in the passageway that ran by Whitey's manger.\nImmediately there came a louder shriek, and even in the anguish of\nknowing their secret discovered, they were shocked to hear distinctly\nthe words, \"O Lard in hivvin!\" in the well-known voice of Della. She\nshrieked again, and they heard the rush of her footfalls across the\ncarriage-house floor. Wild words came from the outer air, and the\nkitchen door slammed violently. It was all over. She had gone to \"tell\".\n\nPenrod and Sam plunged down the stairs and out of the stable. They\nclimbed the back fence and fled up the alley. They turned into Sam's\nyard, and, without consultation, headed for the cellar doors, nor paused\ntill they found themselves in the farthest, darkest and gloomiest recess\nof the cellar. There, perspiring, stricken with fear, they sank down\nupon the earthen floor, with their moist backs against the stone wall.\n\nThus with boys. The vague apprehensions that had been creeping upon\nPenrod and Sam all afternoon had become monstrous; the unknown was\nbefore them. How great their crime would turn out to be (now that it was\nin the hands of grown people) they did not know; but, since it concerned\na horse, it would undoubtedly be considered of terrible dimensions.\n\nTheir plans for a reward, and all the things that had seemed both\ninnocent and practical in the morning, now staggered their minds as\nmanifestations of criminal folly. A new and terrible light seemed to\nplay upon the day's exploits; they had chased a horse belonging to\nstrangers, and it would be said that they deliberately drove him into\nthe stable and there concealed him. They had, in truth, virtually stolen\nhim, and they had stolen food for him. The waning light through\nthe small window above them warned Penrod that his inroads upon the\nvegetables in his own cellar must soon be discovered. Della, that\nNemesis, would seek them in order to prepare them for dinner, and she\nwould find them not. But she would recall his excursion to the cellar,\nfor she had seen him when he came up; and also the truth would be known\nconcerning the loaf of bread. Altogether, Penrod felt that his case\nwas worse than Sam's--until Sam offered a suggestion that roused such\nhorrible possibilities concerning the principal item of their offense\nthat all thought of the smaller indictments disappeared.\n\n\"Listen, Penrod,\" Sam quavered: \"What--what if that--what if that ole\nhorse maybe b'longed to a--policeman!\" Sam's imagination was not of the\ncomforting kind. \"What'd they--do to us, Penrod, if it turned out he was\nsome policeman's horse?\"\n\nPenrod was able only to shake his head. He did not reply in words; but\nboth boys thenceforth considered it almost inevitable that Whitey had\nbelonged to a policeman, and, in their sense of so ultimate a disaster,\nthey ceased for a time to brood upon what their parents would probably\ndo to them. The penalty for stealing a policeman's horse would be only\na step short of capital, they were sure. They would not be hanged; but\nvague, looming sketches of something called the penitentiary began to\nflicker before them.\n\nIt grew darker in the cellar, so that finally they could not see each\nother.\n\n\"I guess they're huntin' for us by now,\" Sam said huskily. \"I don't--I\ndon't like it much down here, Penrod.\"\n\nPenrod's hoarse whisper came from the profound gloom: \"Well, who ever\nsaid you did?\"\n\n\"Well--\" Sam paused; then he said plaintively, \"I wish we'd never SEEN\nthat dern ole horse.\"\n\n\"It was every bit his fault,\" said Penrod. \"We didn't do anything. If he\nhadn't come stickin' his ole head in our stable, it'd never happened\nat all. Ole fool!\" He rose. \"I'm goin' to get out of here; I guess I've\nstood about enough for one day.\"\n\n\"Where--where you goin', Penrod? You aren't goin' HOME, are you?\"\n\n\"No; I'm not! What you take me for? You think I'm crazy?\"\n\n\"Well, where CAN we go?\"\n\nHow far Penrod's desperation actually would have led him is doubtful;\nbut he made this statement: \"I don't know where YOU'RE goin', but I'M\ngoin' to walk straight out in the country till I come to a farmhouse and\nsay my name's George and live there!\"\n\n\"I'll do it, too,\" Sam whispered eagerly. \"I'll say my name's Henry.\"\n\n\"Well, we better get started,\" said the executive Penrod. \"We got to get\naway from here, anyway.\"\n\nBut when they came to ascend the steps leading to the \"outside doors\",\nthey found that those doors had been closed and locked for the night.\n\n\"It's no use,\" Sam lamented, \"and we can't bust 'em, cause I tried to,\nonce before. Fanny always locks 'em about five o'clock--I forgot. We got\nto go up the stairway and try to sneak out through the house.\"\n\nThey tiptoed back, and up the inner stairs. They paused at the top, then\nbreathlessly stepped out into a hall that was entirely dark. Sam touched\nPenrod's sleeve in warning and bent to listen at a door.\n\nImmediately that door opened, revealing the bright library, where sat\nPenrod's mother and Sam's father.\n\nIt was Sam's mother who had opened the door. \"Come into the library,\nboys,\" she said. \"Mrs. Schofield is just telling us about it.\"\n\nAnd as the two comrades moved dumbly into the lighted room, Penrod's\nmother rose, and, taking him by the shoulder, urged him close to the\nfire.\n\n\"You stand there and try to dry off a little, while I finish telling Mr.\nand Mrs. Williams about you and Sam,\" she said. \"You'd better make Sam\nkeep near the fire, too, Mrs. Williams, because they both got wringing\nwet. Think of their running off just when most people would have wanted\nto stay! Well, I'll go on with the story, then. Della told me all about\nit, and what the cook next door said SHE'D seen, how they'd been trying\nto pull grass and leaves for the poor old thing all day--and all about\nthe apples they carried from YOUR cellar, and getting wet and working\nin the rain as hard as they could--and they'd given him a loaf of bread!\nShame on you, Penrod!\" She paused to laugh; but there was a little\nmoisture about her eyes, even before she laughed. \"And they'd fed him\non potatoes and lettuce and cabbage and turnips out of OUR cellar! And\nI wish you'd see the sawdust bed they made for him! Well, when I'd\ntelephoned, and the Humane Society man got there, he said it was the\nmost touching thing he ever knew. It seems he KNEW this horse, and had\nbeen looking for him. He said ninety-nine boys out of a hundred would\nhave chased the poor old thing away, and he was going to see to it that\nthis case didn't go unnoticed, because the local branch of the society\ngives little silver medals for special acts like this. And the last\nthing he said was that he was sure Penrod and Sam each would be awarded\none at the meeting of the society next Thursday night.\"\n\n... On the following Saturday a yodel sounded from the sunny sidewalk\nin front of the Schofields' house, and Penrod, issuing forth, beheld the\nfamiliar figure of Samuel Williams waiting.\n\nUpon Sam's breast there glittered a round bit of silver suspended by a\nwhite ribbon from a bar of the same metal. Upon the breast of Penrod was\na decoration precisely similar.\n\n\"'Lo, Penrod,\" said Sam. \"What are you goin' to do?\"\n\n\"Nothin'\"\n\n\"I got mine on,\" said Sam.\n\n\"I have, too,\" said Penrod. \"I wouldn't take a hunderd dollars for\nmine.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't take two hunderd for mine,\" said Sam.\n\nEach glanced pleasantly at the other's medal. They faced each other\nwithout shame. Neither had the slightest sense of hypocrisy in himself\nor in his comrade. On the contrary!\n\nPenrod's eyes went from Sam's medal back to his own; thence they\nwandered, with perhaps a little disappointment, to the lifeless street\nand to the empty yards and spectatorless windows of the neighbourhood.\nThen he looked southward toward the busy heart of the town, where\nmultitudes were.\n\n\"Let's go down and see what time it is by the court-house-clock,\" said\nPenrod.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. CONSCIENCE\n\nMrs. Schofield had been away for three days, visiting her sister\nin Dayton, Illinois, and on the train, coming back, she fell into a\nreverie. Little dramas of memory were reenacted in her pensive mind, and\nthrough all of them moved the figure of Penrod as a principal figure, or\nstar. These little dramas did not present Penrod as he really was,\nmuch less did they glow with the uncertain but glamorous light in which\nPenrod saw himself. No; Mrs. Schofield had indulged herself in absence\nfrom her family merely for her own pleasure, and, now that she was\nhomeward bound, her conscience was asserting itself; the fact that she\nhad enjoyed her visit began to take on the aspect of a crime.\n\nShe had heard from her family only once during the three days--the\nmessage \"All well don't worry enjoy yourself\" telegraphed by Mr.\nSchofield, and she had followed his suggestions to a reasonable extent.\nOf course she had worried--but only at times; wherefore she now suffered\nmore and more poignant pangs of shame because she had not worried\nconstantly. Naturally, the figure of Penrod, in her railway reverie, was\nthat of an invalid.\n\nShe recalled all the illnesses of his babyhood and all those of his\nboyhood. She reconstructed scene after scene, with the hero always\nprostrate and the family physician opening the black case of phials. She\nemphatically renewed her recollection of accidental misfortunes to the\nbody of Penrod Schofield, omitting neither the considerable nor the\ninconsiderable, forgetting no strain, sprain, cut, bruise or dislocation\nof which she had knowledge. And running this film in a sequence\nunrelieved by brighter interludes, she produced a biographical picture\nof such consistent and unremittent gloom that Penrod's past appeared to\njustify disturbing thoughts about his present and future.\n\nShe became less and less at ease, reproaching herself for having gone\naway, wondering how she had brought herself to do such a crazy thing,\nfor it seemed to her that the members of her family were almost helpless\nwithout her guidance; they were apt to do anything--anything at all--or\nto catch anything. The more she thought about her having left these\nirresponsible harebrains unprotected and undirected for three days, the\nless she was able to account for her action. It seemed to her that\nshe must have been a little flighty; but, shaking her head grimly, she\ndecided that flightiness was not a good excuse. And she made up her mind\nthat if, upon her arrival, she found poor little neglected Penrod (and\nMargaret and Mr. Schofield) spared to her, safe and sound, she would\nmake up to them--especially to Penrod--for all her lack of care in the\npast, and for this present wild folly of spending three whole days and\nnights with her sister, far away in Dayton, Illinois. Consequently,\nwhen Mrs. Schofield descended from that train, she wore the hurried but\ndetermined expression that was always the effect upon her of a guilty\nconscience.\n\n\"You're SURE Penrod is well now?\" she repeated, after Mr. Schofield had\nseated himself at her side in a vehicle known to its driver as a \"deepoe\nhack\".\n\n\"'Well NOW?'\" he said. \"He's been well all the time. I've told you twice\nthat he's all right.\"\n\n\"Men can't always see.\" She shook her head impatiently. \"I haven't been\na bit sure he was well lately. I don't think he's been really well for\ntwo or three months. How has he seemed to-day?\"\n\n\"In fair health,\" Mr. Schofield replied thoughtfully. \"Della called me\nup at the office to tell me that one of the telephone-men had come into\nthe house to say that if that durn boy didn't quit climbing their poles\nthey'd have him arrested. They said he--\"\n\n\"That's it!\" Mrs. Schofield interrupted quickly. \"He's nervous. It's\nsome nervous trouble makes him act like that. He's not like himself at\nall.\"\n\n\"Sometimes,\" Mr. Schofield said, \"I wish he weren't.\"\n\n\"When he's himself,\" Mrs. Schofield went on anxiously, \"he's very quiet\nand good; he doesn't go climbing telegraph-poles and reckless things\nlike that. And I noticed before I went away that he was growing twitchy,\nand seemed to be getting the habit of making unpleasant little noises in\nhis throat.\"\n\n\"Don't fret about that,\" her husband said. \"He was trying to learn Sam\nWilliams's imitation of a bullfrog's croak. I used to do that myself\nwhen I was a boy. Gl-glump, gallump! No; I can't do it now. But nearly\nall boys feel obliged to learn it.\"\n\n\"You're entirely mistaken, Henry,\" she returned a little sharply. \"That\nisn't the way he goes in his throat. Penrod is getting to be a VERY\nnervous boy, and he makes noises because he can't help it. He works\npart of his face, too, sometimes, so much that I've been afraid it would\ninterfere with his looks.\"\n\n\"Interfere with his what?\" For the moment, Mr. Schofield seemed to be\ndazed.\n\n\"When he's himself,\" she returned crisply, \"he's quite a handsome boy.\"\n\n\"He is?\"\n\n\"Handsomer than the average, anyhow,\" Mrs. Schofield said firmly. \"No\nwonder you don't see it--when we've let his system get all run down like\nthis!\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" the mystified Mr. Schofield murmured. \"Penrod's system\nhasn't been running down; it's just the same as it always was. He's\nabsolutely all right.\"\n\n\"Indeed he is not!\" she said severely. \"We've got to take better care of\nhim than we have been.\"\n\n\"Why, how could--\"\n\n\"I know what I'm talking about,\" she interrupted. \"Penrod is anything\nbut a strong boy, and it's all our fault. We haven't been watchful\nenough of his health; that's what's the matter with him and makes him so\nnervous.\"\n\nThus she continued, and, as she talked on, Mr. Schofield began, by\nimperceptible processes, to adopt her views. As for Mrs. Schofield\nherself, these views became substantial by becoming vocal. This is to\nsay, with all deference, that as soon as she heard herself stating\nthem she was convinced that they accurately represented facts. And the\ndetermined look in her eyes deepened when the \"deepoe hack\" turned the\nfamiliar corner and she saw Penrod running to the gate, followed by\nDuke.\n\nNever had Penrod been so glad to greet his mother. Never was he more\nboisterous in the expression of happiness of that kind. And the tokens\nof his appetite at dinner, a little later, were extraordinary. Mr.\nSchofield began to feel reassured in spite of himself; but Mrs.\nSchofield shook her head.\n\n\"Don't you see? It's abnormal!\" she said, in a low, decisive voice.\n\n\nThat night Penrod awoke from a sweet, conscienceless slumber--or,\nrather, he was awakened. A wrappered form lurked over him in the gloom.\n\n\"Uff--ow--\" he muttered, and turned his face from the dim light that\nshone through the doorway. He sighed and sought the depths of sleep\nagain.\n\n\"Penrod,\" his mother said softly, and, while he resisted feebly, she\nturned him over to face her.\n\n\"Gawn lea' me 'lone,\" he muttered.\n\nThen, as a little sphere touched his lips, he jerked his head away,\nstartled.\n\n\"Whassat?\"\n\nMrs. Schofield replied in tones honeysweet and coaxing: \"It's just a\nnice little pill, Penrod.\"\n\n\"Doe waw 'ny!\" he protested, keeping his eyes shut, clinging to the\nsleep from which he was being riven.\n\n\"Be a good boy, Penrod,\" she whispered. \"Here's a glass of nice cool\nwater to swallow it down with. Come, dear; it's going to do you lots of\ngood.\"\n\nAnd again the little pill was placed suggestively against his lips; but\nhis head jerked backward, and his hand struck out in blind, instinctive\nself-defense.\n\n\"I'll BUST that ole pill,\" he muttered, still with closed eyes. \"Lemme\nget my han's on it an' I will!\"\n\n\"Penrod!\"\n\n\"PLEASE go on away, mamma!\"\n\n\"I will, just as soon as you take this little pill.\"\n\n\"I DID!\"\n\n\"No, dear.\"\n\n\"I did,\" Penrod insisted plaintively. \"You made me take it just before I\nwent to bed.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes; THAT one. But, dearie,\" Mrs. Schofield explained, \"I got to\nthinking about it after I went to bed, and I decided you'd better have\nanother.\"\n\n\"I don't WANT another.\"\n\n\"Yes, dearie.\"\n\n\"Please go 'way and let me sleep.\"\n\n\"Not till you've taken the little pill, dear.\"\n\n\"Oh, GOLLY!\" Groaning, he propped himself upon an elbow and allowed the\npill to pass between his lips. (He would have allowed anything whatever\nto pass between them, if that passing permitted his return to slumber.)\nThen, detaining the pill in his mouth, he swallowed half a glass of\nwater, and again was recumbent.\n\n\"G'-night, Mamma.\"\n\n\"Good-night, dearie. Sleep well.\"\n\n\"Yes'm.\"\n\nAfter her departure Penrod drowsily enjoyed the sugar coating of the\npill; but this was indeed a brief pleasure. A bitterness that was like\na pang suddenly made itself known to his sense of taste, and he realized\nthat he had dallied too confidingly with the product of a manufacturing\nchemist who should have been indicted for criminal economy. The\nmedicinal portion of the little pill struck the wall with a faint tap,\nthen dropped noiselessly to the floor, and, after a time, Penrod slept.\n\nSome hours later he began to dream; he dreamed that his feet and legs\nwere becoming uncomfortable as a result of Sam Williams's activities\nwith a red-hot poker.\n\n\"You QUIT that!\" he said aloud, and awoke indignantly. Again a dark,\nwrappered figure hovered over the bed.\n\n\"It's only a hot-water bag, dear,\" Mrs. Schofield said, still labouring\nunder the covers with an extended arm. \"You mustn't hunch yourself up\nthat way, Penrod. Put your feet down on it.\"\n\nAnd, as he continued to hunch himself, she moved the bag in the\ndirection of his withdrawal.\n\n\"Ow, murder!\" he exclaimed convulsively. \"What you tryin' to do? Scald\nme to death?\"\n\n\"Penrod--\"\n\n\"My goodness, Mamma,\" he wailed; \"can't you let me sleep a MINUTE?\"\n\n\"It's very bad for you to let your feet get cold, dear.\"\n\n\"They WEREN'T cold. I don't want any ole hot-wat--\"\n\n\"Penrod,\" she said firmly, \"you must put your feet against the bag. It\nisn't too hot.\"\n\n\"Oh, isn't it?\" he retorted. \"I don't s'pose you'd care if I burned\nmy feet right off! Mamma, won't you please, pul-LEEZE let me get some\nsleep?\"\n\n\"Not till you--\"\n\nShe was interrupted by a groan that seemed to come from an abyss.\n\n\"All right, I'll do it! Let 'em burn, then!\" Thus spake the desperate\nPenrod; and Mrs. Schofield was able to ascertain that one heel had been\nplaced in light contact with the bag.\n\n\"No; both feet, Penrod.\"\n\nWith a tragic shiver he obeyed.\n\n\"THAT'S right, dear! Now, keep them that way. It's good for you.\nGood-night.\"\n\n\"G'-night!\"\n\nThe door closed softly behind her, and the body of Penrod, from the hips\nupward, rose invisibly in the complete darkness of the bedchamber.\nA moment later the hot-water bag reached the floor in as noiseless a\nmanner as that previously adopted by the remains of the little pill,\nand Penrod once more bespread his soul with poppies. This time he slept\nuntil the breakfast-bell rang.\n\nHe was late to school, and at once found himself in difficulties.\nGovernment demanded an explanation of the tardiness; but Penrod made no\nreply of any kind. Taciturnity is seldom more strikingly out of place\nthan under such circumstances, and the penalties imposed took account\nnot only of Penrod's tardiness but of his supposititious defiance of\nauthority in declining to speak. The truth was that Penrod did not know\nwhy he was tardy, and, with mind still lethargic, found it impossible\nto think of an excuse his continuing silence being due merely to the\npersistence of his efforts to invent one. Thus were his meek searchings\nmisinterpreted, and the unloved hours of improvement in science and the\narts made odious.\n\n\"They'll SEE!\" he whispered sorely to himself, as he bent low over his\ndesk, a little later. Some day he would \"show 'em\". The picture in his\nmind was of a vast, vague assembly of people headed by Miss Spence\nand the superior pupils who were never tardy, and these multitudes,\nrepresenting persecution and government in general, were all cringing\nbefore a Penrod Schofield who rode a grim black horse up and down their\nmiserable ranks, and gave curt orders.\n\n\"Make 'em step back there!\" he commanded his myrmidons savagely. \"Fix\nit so's your horses'll step on their feet if they don't do what I say!\"\nThen, from his shining saddle, he watched the throngs slinking away. \"I\nguess they know who I am NOW!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. THE TONIC\n\nThese broodings helped a little; but it was a severe morning, and on\nhis way home at noon he did not recover heart enough to practice the\nbullfrog's croak, the craft that Sam Williams had lately mastered to\ninspiring perfection. This sonorous accomplishment Penrod had determined\nto make his own. At once guttural and resonant, impudent yet plaintive,\nwith a barbaric twang like the plucked string of a Congo war-fiddle, the\nsound had fascinated him. It is made in the throat by processes utterly\nimpossible to describe in human words, and no alphabet as yet produced\nby civilized man affords the symbols to vocalize it to the ear of\nimagination. \"Gunk\" is the poor makeshift that must be employed to\nindicate it.\n\nPenrod uttered one half-hearted \"Gunk\" as he turned in at his own gate.\nHowever, this stimulated him, and he paused to practice. \"Gunk!\" he\ncroaked. \"Gunk-gunk-gunk-gunk!\"\n\nMrs. Schofield leaned out of an open window upstairs.\n\n\"Don't do that, Penrod,\" she said anxiously. \"Please don't do that.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" Penrod asked, and, feeling encouraged by his progress in the\nnew art, he continued: \"Gunk--gunk-gunk! Gunk-gunk--\"\n\n\"Please try not to do it,\" she urged pleadingly. \"You CAN stop it if you\ntry. Won't you, dear?\"\n\nBut Penrod felt that he was almost upon the point of attaining a mastery\nequal to Sam Williams's. He had just managed to do something in his\nthroat that he had never done before, and he felt that unless he kept\non doing it at this time, his new-born facility might evade him later.\n\"Gunk!\" he croaked. \"Gunk--gunk-gunk!\" And he continued to croak,\npersevering monotonously, his expression indicating the depth of his\npreoccupation.\n\nHis mother looked down solicitously, murmured in a melancholy undertone,\nshook her head; then disappeared from the window, and, after a moment or\ntwo, opened the front door.\n\n\"Come in, dear,\" she said; \"I've got something for you.\"\n\nPenrod's look of preoccupation vanished; he brightened and ceased to\ncroak. His mother had already given him a small leather pocketbook with\na nickel in it, as a souvenir of her journey. Evidently she had brought\nanother gift as well, delaying its presentation until now. \"I've got\nsomething for you!\" These were auspicious words.\n\n\"What is it, Mamma?\" he asked, and, as she smiled tenderly upon him,\nhis gayety increased. \"Yay!\" he shouted. \"Mamma, is it that reg'lar\ncarpenter's tool chest I told you about?\"\n\n\"No,\" she said. \"But I'll show you, Penrod. Come on, dear.\"\n\nHe followed her with alacrity to the dining-room, and the bright\nanticipation in his eyes grew more brilliant--until she opened the\ndoor of the china-closet, simultaneously with that action announcing\ncheerily:\n\n\"It's something that's going to do you lots of good, Penrod.\"\n\nHe was instantly chilled, for experience had taught him that when\npredictions of this character were made, nothing pleasant need be\nexpected. Two seconds later his last hope departed as she turned from\nthe closet and he beheld in her hands a quart bottle containing what\nappeared to be a section of grassy swamp immersed in a cloudy brown\nliquor. He stepped back, grave suspicion in his glance.\n\n\"What IS that?\" he asked, in a hard voice.\n\nMrs. Schofield smiled upon him. \"It's nothing,\" she said. \"That is, it's\nnothing you'll mind at all. It's just so you won't be so nervous.\"\n\n\"I'm not nervous.\"\n\n\"You don't think so, of course, dear,\" she returned, and, as she spoke,\nshe poured some of the brown liquor into a tablespoon. \"People often\ncan't tell when they're nervous themselves; but your Papa and I have\nbeen getting a little anxious about you, dear, and so I got this\nmedicine for you.\"\n\n\"WHERE'D you get it?\" he demanded.\n\nMrs. Schofield set the bottle down and moved toward him, insinuatingly\nextending the full tablespoon.\n\n\"Here, dear,\" she said; \"just take this little spoonful, like a goo--\"\n\n\"I want to know where it came from,\" he insisted darkly, again stepping\nbackward.\n\n\"Where?\" she echoed absently, watching to see that nothing was spilled\nfrom the spoon as she continued to move toward him. \"Why, I was talking\nto old Mrs. Wottaw at market this morning, and she said her son Clark\nused to have nervous trouble, and she told me about this medicine and\nhow to have it made at the drug store. She told me it cured Clark,\nand--\"\n\n\"I don't want to be cured,\" Penrod said, adding inconsistently, \"I\nhaven't got anything to be cured of.\"\n\n\"Now, dear,\" Mrs. Schofield began, \"you don't want your papa and me to\nkeep on worrying about--\"\n\n\"I don't care whether you worry or not,\" the heartless boy interrupted.\n\"I don't want to take any horrable ole medicine. What's that grass and\nweeds in the bottle for?\"\n\nMrs. Schofield looked grieved. \"There isn't any grass and there aren't\nany weeds; those are healthful herbs.\"\n\n\"I bet they'll make me sick.\"\n\nShe sighed. \"Penrod, we're trying to make you well.\"\n\n\"But I AM well, I tell you!\"\n\n\"No, dear; your papa's been very much troubled about you. Come, Penrod;\nswallow this down and don't make such a fuss about it. It's just for\nyour own good.\"\n\nAnd she advanced upon him again, the spoon extended toward his lips. It\nalmost touched them, for he had retreated until his back was against\nthe wall-paper. He could go no farther; but he evinced his unshaken\nrepugnance by averting his face.\n\n\"What's it taste like?\" he demanded.\n\n\"It's not unpleasant at all,\" she answered, poking the spoon at his\nmouth. \"Mrs. Wottaw said Clark used to be very fond of it. It doesn't\ntaste like ordinary medicine at all,' she said.\"\n\n\"How often I got to take it?\" Penrod mumbled, as the persistent spoon\nsought to enter his mouth. \"Just this once?\"\n\n\"No, dear; three times a day.\"\n\n\"I won't do it!\"\n\n\"Penrod!\" She spoke sharply. \"You swallow this down and stop making such\na fuss. I can't be all day. Hurry.\"\n\nShe inserted the spoon between his lips, so that its rim touched his\nclenched teeth; he was still reluctant. Moreover, is reluctance was\nnatural and characteristic, for a boy's sense of taste is as simple and\nas peculiar as a dog's, though, of course, altogether different from a\ndog's. A boy, passing through the experimental age, may eat and drink\nastonishing things; but they must be of his own choosing. His palate is\ntender, and, in one sense, might be called fastidious; nothing is more\nsensitive or more easily shocked. A boy tastes things much more than\ngrown people taste them: what is merely unpleasant to a man is\nsheer broth of hell to a boy. Therefore, not knowing what might be\nencountered, Penrod continued to be reluctant.\n\n\"Penrod,\" his mother exclaimed, losing patience, \"I'll call your papa to\nmake you take it, if you don't swallow it right down! Open your mouth,\nPenrod! It isn't going to taste bad at all. Open your mouth--THERE!\"\n\nThe reluctant jaw relaxed at last, and Mrs. Schofield dexterously\nelevated the handle of the spoon so that the brown liquor was deposited\nwithin her son.\n\n\"There!\" she repeated triumphantly. \"It wasn't so bad after all, was\nit?\"\n\nPenrod did not reply. His expression had become odd, and the oddity of\nhis manner was equal to that of his expression. Uttering no sound, he\nseemed to distend, as if he had suddenly become a pneumatic boy under\ndangerous pressure. Meanwhile, his reddening eyes, fixed awfully upon\nhis mother, grew unbearable.\n\n\"Now, it wasn't such a bad taste,\" Mrs. Schofield said rather nervously.\n\"Don't go acting THAT way, Penrod!\"\n\nBut Penrod could not help himself. In truth, even a grown person\nhardened to all manner of flavours, and able to eat caviar or liquid\nCamembert, would have found the cloudy brown liquor virulently\nrepulsive. It contained in solution, with other things, the vital\nelement of surprise, for it was comparatively odourless, and, unlike the\nchivalrous rattlesnake, gave no warning of what it was about to do. In\nthe case of Penrod, the surprise was complete and its effect visibly\nshocking.\n\nThe distention by which he began to express his emotion appeared to\nbe increasing; his slender throat swelled as his cheeks puffed. His\nshoulders rose toward his ears; he lifted his right leg in an unnatural\nway and held it rigidly in the air.\n\n\"Stop that, Penrod!\" Mrs. Schofield commanded. \"You stop it!\"\n\nHe found his voice.\n\n\"Uff! OOOFF!\" he said thickly, and collapsed--a mere, ordinary,\nevery-day convulsion taking the place of his pneumatic symptoms. He\nbegan to writhe, at the same time opening and closing his mouth rapidly\nand repeatedly, waving his arms, stamping on the floor.\n\n\"Ow! Ow-ow-OW!\" he vociferated.\n\nReassured by these normal demonstrations, of a type with which she was\nfamiliar, Mrs. Schofield resumed her fond smile.\n\n\"YOU'RE all right, little boysie!\" she said heartily. Then, picking up\nthe bottle, she replenished the tablespoon, and told Penrod something\nshe had considered it undiplomatic to mention before.\n\n\"Here's the other one,\" she said sweetly.\n\n\"Uuf!\" he sputtered. \"Other--uh--what?\"\n\n\"Two tablespoons before each meal,\" she informed him.\n\nInstantly Penrod made the first of a series of passionate efforts to\nleave the room. His determination was so intense and the manifestations\nof it were so ruthless, that Mrs. Schofield, exhausted, found herself\nobliged to call for the official head of the house--in fact, she found\nherself obliged to shriek for him; and Mr. Schofield, hastily entering\nthe room, beheld his wife apparently in the act of sawing his son back\nand forth across the sill of an open window.\n\nPenrod made a frantic effort to reach the good green earth, even after\nhis mother's clutch upon his ankle had been reenforced by his father's.\nNor was the lad's revolt subdued when he was deposited upon the floor\nand the window closed. Indeed, it may be said that he actually never\ngave up, though it is a fact that the second potion was successfully\nplaced inside him. But by the time this feat was finally accomplished,\nMr. Schofield had proved that, in spite of middle age, he was entitled\nto substantial claims and honours both as athlete and orator--his\noratory being founded less upon the school of Webster and more upon that\nof Jeremiah.\n\nSo the thing was done, and the double dose put within the person of\nPenrod Schofield. It proved not ineffective there, and presently, as its\nnew owner sat morosely at table, he began to feel slightly dizzy and\nhis eyes refused him perfect service. This was natural, because two\ntablespoons of the cloudy brown liquor contained about the amount of\nalcohol to be found in an ordinary cocktail. Now a boy does not enjoy\nthe effects of intoxication; enjoyment of that kind is obtained only\nby studious application. Therefore, Penrod spoke of his symptoms\ncomplainingly, and even showed himself so vindictive as to attribute\nthem to the new medicine.\n\nHis mother made no reply. Instead, she nodded her head as if some inner\nconviction had proven well founded.\n\n\"BILIOUS, TOO,\" she whispered to her husband.\n\nThat evening, during the half-hour preceding dinner, the dining-room was\nthe scene of another struggle, only a little less desperate than that\nwhich had been the prelude to lunch, and again an appeal to the head of\nthe house was found necessary. Muscular activity and a liberal imitation\nof the jeremiads once more subjugated the rebel--and the same rebellion\nand its suppression in a like manner took place the following morning\nbefore breakfast. But this was Saturday, and, without warning or\napparent reason, a remarkable change came about at noon. However, Mr.\nand Mrs. Schofield were used to inexplicable changes in Penrod, and they\nmissed its significance.\n\nWhen Mrs. Schofield, with dread in her heart, called Penrod into the\nhouse \"to take his medicine\" before lunch, he came briskly, and took it\nlike a lamb!\n\n\"Why, Penrod, that's splendid!\" she cried \"You see it isn't bad, at\nall.\"\n\n\"No'm,\" he said meekly. \"Not when you get used to it.\"\n\n\"And aren't you ashamed, making all that fuss?\" she went on happily.\n\n\"Yes'm, I guess so.\"\n\n\"And don't you feel better? Don't you see how much good it's doing you\nalready?\"\n\n\"Yes'm, I guess so.\"\n\n\nUpon a holiday morning, several weeks later, Penrod and Sam Williams\nrevived a pastime that they called \"drug store\", setting up display\ncounters, selling chemical, cosmetic and other compounds to imaginary\ncustomers, filling prescriptions and variously conducting themselves in\na pharmaceutical manner. They were in the midst of affairs when Penrod\ninterrupted his partner and himself with a cry of recollection.\n\n\"_I_ know!\" he shouted. \"I got some mighty good ole stuff we want. You\nwait!\" And, dashing to the house, he disappeared.\n\nReturning immediately, Penrod placed upon the principal counter of the\n\"drug store\" a large bottle. It was a quart bottle, in fact; and it\ncontained what appeared to be a section of grassy swamp immersed in a\ncloudy brown liquor.\n\n\"There!\" Penrod exclaimed. \"How's that for some good ole medicine?\"\n\n\"It's good ole stuff,\" Sam said approvingly. \"Where'd you get it? Whose\nis it, Penrod?\"\n\n\"It WAS mine,\" said Penrod. \"Up to about serreval days ago, it was. They\nquit givin' it to me. I had to take two bottles and a half of it.\"\n\n\"What did you haf to take it for?\"\n\n\"I got nervous, or sumpthing,\" said Penrod.\n\n\"You all well again now?\"\n\n\"I guess so. Uncle Passloe and cousin Ronald came to visit, and I expect\nshe got too busy to think about it, or sumpthing. Anyway, she quit\nmakin' me take it, and said I was lots better. She's forgot all about it\nby this time.\"\n\nSam was looking at the bottle with great interest.\n\n\"What's all that stuff in there, Penrod?\" he asked. \"What's all that\nstuff in there looks like grass?\"\n\n\"It IS grass,\" said Penrod.\n\n\"How'd it get there?\"\n\n\"I stuck it in there,\" the candid boy replied. \"First they had some\nhorrable ole stuff in there like to killed me. But after they got three\ndoses down me, I took the bottle out in the yard and cleaned her all\nout and pulled a lot o' good ole grass and stuffed her pretty full and\npoured in a lot o' good ole hydrant water on top of it. Then, when they\ngot the next bottle, I did the same way, and--\"\n\n\"It don't look like water,\" Sam objected.\n\nPenrod laughed a superior laugh.\n\n\"Oh, that's nothin',\" he said, with the slight swagger of young\nand conscious genius. \"Of course, I had to slip in and shake her up\nsometimes, so's they wouldn't notice.\"\n\n\"But what did you put in it to make it look like that?\"\n\nPenrod, upon the point of replying, happened to glance toward the house.\nHis gaze, lifting, rested for a moment upon a window. The head of Mrs.\nSchofield was framed in that window. She nodded gayly to her son. She\ncould see him plainly, and she thought that he seemed perfectly healthy,\nand as happy as a boy could be. She was right.\n\n\"What DID you put in it?\" Sam insisted.\n\nAnd probably it was just as well that, though Mrs. Schofield could see\nher son, the distance was too great for her to hear him.\n\n\"Oh, nothin',\" Penrod replied. \"Nothin' but a little good ole mud.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. GIPSY\n\nOn a fair Saturday afternoon in November Penrod's little old dog Duke\nreturned to the ways of his youth and had trouble with a strange cat on\nthe back porch. This indiscretion, so uncharacteristic, was due to the\nagitation of a surprised moment, for Duke's experience had inclined\nhim to a peaceful pessimism, and he had no ambition for hazardous\nundertakings of any sort. He was given to musing but not to avoidable\naction, and he seemed habitually to hope for something that he was\npretty sure would not happen. Even in his sleep, this gave him an air of\nwistfulness.\n\nThus, being asleep in a nook behind the metal refuse-can, when the\nstrange cat ventured to ascend the steps of the porch, his appearance\nwas so unwarlike that the cat felt encouraged to extend its field of\nreconnaissance for the cook had been careless, and the backbone of a\nthree-pound whitefish lay at the foot of the refuse-can.\n\nThis cat was, for a cat, needlessly tall, powerful, independent and\nmasculine. Once, long ago, he had been a roly-poly pepper-and-salt\nkitten; he had a home in those days, and a name, \"Gipsy,\" which he\nabundantly justified. He was precocious in dissipation. Long before his\nadolescence, his lack of domesticity was ominous, and he had formed bad\ncompanionships. Meanwhile, he grew so rangy, and developed such length\nand power of leg and such traits of character, that the father of the\nlittle girl who owned him was almost convincing when he declared that\nthe young cat was half broncho and half Malay pirate--though, in the\nlight of Gipsy's later career, this seems bitterly unfair to even the\nlowest orders of bronchos and Malay pirates.\n\nNo; Gipsy was not the pet for a little girl. The rosy hearthstone and\nsheltered rug were too circumspect for him. Surrounded by the comforts\nof middle-class respectability, and profoundly oppressed, even in his\nyouth, by the Puritan ideals of the household, he sometimes experienced\na sense of suffocation. He wanted free air and he wanted free life; he\nwanted the lights, the lights and the music. He abandoned the bourgeoise\nirrevocably. He went forth in a May twilight, carrying the evening\nbeefsteak with him, and joined the underworld.\n\nHis extraordinary size, his daring and his utter lack of sympathy soon\nmade him the leader--and, at the same time, the terror--of all the\nloose-lived cats in a wide neighbourhood. He contracted no friendships\nand had no confidants. He seldom slept in the same place twice in\nsuccession, and though he was wanted by the police, he was not found.\nIn appearance he did not lack distinction of an ominous sort; the slow,\nrhythmic, perfectly controlled mechanism of his tail, as he impressively\nwalked abroad, was incomparably sinister. This stately and dangerous\nwalk of his, his long, vibrant whiskers, his scars, his yellow eye, so\nice-cold, so fire-hot, haughty as the eye of Satan, gave him the deadly\nair of a mousquetaire duellist. His soul was in that walk and in that\neye; it could be read--the soul of a bravo of fortune, living on\nhis wits and his velour, asking no favours and granting no quarter.\nIntolerant, proud, sullen, yet watchful and constantly planning--purely\na militarist, believing in slaughter as in a religion, and confident\nthat art, science, poetry and the good of the world were happily\nadvanced thereby--Gipsy had become, though technically not a wildcat,\nundoubtedly the most untamed cat at large in the civilized world. Such,\nin brief, was the terrifying creature that now elongated its neck, and,\nover the top step of the porch, bent a calculating scrutiny upon the\nwistful and slumberous Duke.\n\nThe scrutiny was searching but not prolonged. Gipsy muttered\ncontemptuously to himself, \"Oh, sheol; I'm not afraid o' THAT!\" And\nhe approached the fishbone, his padded feet making no noise upon the\nboards. It was a desirable fishbone, large, with a considerable portion\nof the fish's tail still attached to it.\n\nIt was about a foot from Duke's nose, and the little dog's dreams began\nto be troubled by his olfactory nerve. This faithful sentinel, on guard\neven while Duke slept, signalled that alarums and excursions by parties\nunknown were taking place, and suggested that attention might well be\npaid. Duke opened one drowsy eye. What that eye beheld was monstrous.\n\nHere was a strange experience--the horrific vision in the midst of\nthings so accustomed. Sunshine fell sweetly upon porch and backyard;\nyonder was the familiar stable, and from its interior came the busy hum\nof a carpenter shop, established that morning by Duke's young master,\nin association with Samuel Williams and Herman. Here, close by, were\nthe quiet refuse-can and the wonted brooms and mops leaning against the\nlatticed wall at the end of the porch, and there, by the foot of the\nsteps, was the stone slab of the cistern, with the iron cover displaced\nand lying beside the round opening, where the carpenters had left it,\nnot half an hour ago, after lowering a stick of wood into the water, \"to\nseason it\". All about Duke were these usual and reassuring environs of\nhis daily life, and yet it was his fate to behold, right in the midst of\nthem, and in ghastly juxtaposition to his face, a thing of nightmare and\nlunacy.\n\nGipsy had seized the fishbone by the middle. Out from one side of his\nhead, and mingling with his whiskers, projected the long, spiked spine\nof the big fish; down from the other side of that ferocious head dangled\nthe fish's tail, and from above the remarkable effect thus produced shot\nthe intolerable glare of two yellow eyes. To the gaze of Duke, still\nblurred by slumber, this monstrosity was all of one piece the bone\nseemed a living part of it. What he saw was like those interesting\ninsect-faces that the magnifying glass reveals to great M. Fabre. It\nwas impossible for Duke to maintain the philosophic calm of M. Fabre,\nhowever; there was no magnifying glass between him and this spined and\nspiky face. Indeed, Duke was not in a position to think the matter over\nquietly. If he had been able to do that, he would have said to himself:\n\"We have here an animal of most peculiar and unattractive appearance,\nthough, upon examination, it seems to be only a cat stealing a fishbone.\nNevertheless, as the thief is large beyond all my recollection of cats\nand has an unpleasant stare, I will leave this spot at once.\"\n\nOn the contrary, Duke was so electrified by his horrid awakening that he\ncompletely lost his presence of mind. In the very instant of his first\neye's opening, the other eye and his mouth behaved similarly, the latter\nloosing upon the quiet air one shriek of mental agony before the little\ndog scrambled to his feet and gave further employment to his voice in\na frenzy of profanity. At the same time the subterranean diapason of a\ndemoniac bass viol was heard; it rose to a wail, and rose and rose again\ntill it screamed like a small siren. It was Gipsy's war-cry, and, at the\nsound of it, Duke became a frothing maniac. He made a convulsive frontal\nattack upon the hobgoblin--and the massacre began.\n\nNever releasing the fishbone for an instant, Gipsy laid back his ears in\na chilling way, beginning to shrink into himself like a concertina, but\nrising amidships so high that he appeared to be giving an imitation of\nthat peaceful beast, the dromedary. Such was not his purpose, however,\nfor, having attained his greatest possible altitude, he partially sat\ndown and elevated his right arm after the manner of a semaphore. This\nsemaphore arm remained rigid for a second, threatening; then it vibrated\nwith inconceivable rapidity, feinting. But it was the treacherous left\nthat did the work. Seemingly this left gave Duke three lightning little\npats upon the right ear; but the change in his voice indicated that\nthese were no love-taps. He yelled \"help!\" and \"bloody murder!\"\n\nNever had such a shattering uproar, all vocal, broken out upon a\npeaceful afternoon. Gipsy possessed a vocabulary for cat-swearing\ncertainly second to none out of Italy, and probably equal to the best\nthere, while Duke remembered and uttered things he had not thought of\nfor years.\n\nThe hum of the carpenter shop ceased, and Sam Williams appeared in the\nstable doorway. He stared insanely.\n\n\"My gorry!\" he shouted. \"Duke's havin' a fight with the biggest cat you\never saw in your life! C'mon!\"\n\nHis feet were already in motion toward the battlefield, with Penrod and\nHerman hurrying in his wake. Onward they sped, and Duke was encouraged\nby the sight and sound of these reenforcements to increase his\nown outrageous clamours and to press home his attack. But he was\nill-advised. This time it was the right arm of the semaphore that\ndipped--and Duke's honest nose was but too conscious of what happened in\nconsequence.\n\nA lump of dirt struck the refuse-can with violence, and Gipsy beheld\nthe advance of overwhelming forces. They rushed upon him from two\ndirections, cutting off the steps of the porch. Undaunted, the\nformidable cat raked Duke's nose again, somewhat more lingeringly, and\nprepared to depart with his fishbone. He had little fear for himself,\nbecause he was inclined to think that, unhampered, he could whip\nanything on earth; still, things seemed to be growing rather warm and he\nsaw nothing to prevent his leaving.\n\nAnd though he could laugh in the face of so unequal an antagonist as\nDuke, Gipsy felt that he was never at his best or able to do himself\nfull justice unless he could perform that feline operation inaccurately\nknown as \"spitting\". To his notion, this was an absolute essential\nto combat; but, as all cats of the slightest pretensions to technique\nperfectly understand, it can neither be well done nor produce the best\neffects unless the mouth be opened to its utmost capacity so as to\nexpose the beginnings of the alimentary canal, down which--at least that\nis the intention of the threat--the opposing party will soon be passing.\nAnd Gipsy could not open his mouth without relinquishing his fishbone.\n\nTherefore, on small accounts he decided to leave the field to his\nenemies and to carry the fishbone elsewhere. He took two giant leaps.\nThe first landed him upon the edge of the porch. There, without an\ninstant's pause, he gathered his fur-sheathed muscles, concentrated\nhimself into one big steel spring, and launched himself superbly into\nspace. He made a stirring picture, however brief, as he left the solid\nporch behind him and sailed upward on an ascending curve into the sunlit\nair. His head was proudly up; he was the incarnation of menacing power\nand of self-confidence. It is possible that the whitefish's spinal\ncolumn and flopping tail had interfered with his vision, and in\nlaunching himself he may have mistaken the dark, round opening of\nthe cistern for its dark, round cover. In that case, it was a leap\ncalculated and executed with precision, for as the boys clamoured their\npleased astonishment, Gipsy descended accurately into the orifice and\npassed majestically from public view, with the fishbone still in his\nmouth and his haughty head still high.\n\nThere was a grand splash!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. CONCERNING TROUSERS\n\nDuke, hastening to place himself upon the stone slab, raged at his enemy\nin safety; and presently the indomitable Gipsy could be heard from the\ndarkness below, turning on the bass of his siren, threatening the\nwater that enveloped him, returning Duke's profanity with interest, and\ncursing the general universe.\n\n\"You hush!\" Penrod stormed, rushing at Duke. \"You go 'way from here! You\nDUKE!\"\n\nAnd Duke, after prostrating himself, decided that it would be a relief\nto obey and to consider his responsibilities in this matter at an end.\nHe withdrew beyond a corner of the house, thinking deeply.\n\n\"Why'n't you let him bark at the ole cat?\" Sam Williams inquired,\nsympathizing with the oppressed. \"I guess you'd want to bark if a cat\nhad been treatin' you the way this one did Duke.\"\n\n\"Well, we got to get this cat out o' here, haven't we?\" Penrod demanded\ncrossly.\n\n\"What fer?\" Herman asked. \"Mighty mean cat! If it was me, I let 'at ole\ncat drownd.\"\n\n\"My goodness,\" Penrod cried. \"What you want to let it drown for?\nAnyways, we got to use this water in our house, haven't we? You don't\ns'pose people like to use water that's got a cat drowned in it, do\nyou? It gets pumped up into the tank in the attic and goes all over the\nhouse, and I bet you wouldn't want to see your father and mother usin'\nwater a cat was drowned in. I guess I don't want my father and moth--\"\n\n\"Well, how CAN we get it out?\" Sam asked, cutting short this virtuous\noration. \"It's swimmin' around down there,\" he continued, peering into\nthe cistern, \"and kind of roaring, and it must of dropped its fishbone,\n'cause it's spittin' just awful. I guess maybe it's mad 'cause it fell\nin there.\"\n\n\"I don't know how it's goin' to be got out,\" said Penrod; \"but I know\nit's GOT to be got out, and that's all there is to it! I'm not goin' to\nhave my father and mother--\"\n\n\"Well, once,\" said Sam, \"once when a kitten fell down OUR cistern, Papa\ntook a pair of his trousers, and he held 'em by the end of one leg, and\nlet 'em hang down through the hole till the end of the other leg was in\nthe water, and the kitten went and clawed hold of it, and he pulled it\nright up, easy as anything. Well, that's the way to do now, 'cause if\na kitten could keep hold of a pair of trousers, I guess this ole cat\ncould. It's the biggest cat _I_ ever saw! All you got to do is to go\nand ast your mother for a pair of your father's trousers, and we'll have\nthis ole cat out o' there in no time.\"\n\nPenrod glanced toward the house perplexedly.\n\n\"She ain't home, and I'd be afraid to--\"\n\n\"Well, take your own, then,\" Sam suggested briskly.\n\n\"You take 'em off in the stable, and wait in there, and I and Herman'll\nget the cat out.\"\n\nPenrod had no enthusiasm for this plan; but he affected to consider it.\n\n\"Well, I don't know 'bout that,\" he said, and then, after gazing\nattentively into the cistern and making some eye measurements of his\nknickerbockers, he shook his head. \"They'd be too short. They wouldn't\nbe NEAR long enough!\"\n\n\"Then neither would mine,\" said Sam promptly.\n\n\"Herman's would,\" said Penrod.\n\n\"No, suh!\" Herman had recently been promoted to long trousers, and he\nexpressed a strong disinclination to fall in with Penrod's idea. \"My\nMammy sit up late nights sewin' on 'ese britches fer me, makin' 'em\nouten of a pair o' pappy's, an' they mighty good britches. Ain' goin'\nhave no wet cat climbin' up 'em! No, suh!\"\n\nBoth boys began to walk toward him argumentatively, while he moved\nslowly backward, shaking his head and denying them.\n\n\"I don't keer how much you talk!\" he said. \"Mammy gave my OLE britches\nto Verman, an' 'ese here ones on'y britches I got now, an' I'm go' to\nkeep 'em on me--not take 'em off an' let ole wet cat splosh all over\n'em. My Mammy, she sewed 'em fer ME, I reckon--d'in' sew 'em fer no\ncat!\"\n\n\"Oh, PLEASE, come on, Herman!\" Penrod begged pathetically. \"You don't\nwant to see the poor cat drown, do you?\"\n\n\"Mighty mean cat!\" Herman said. \"Bet' let 'at ole pussy-cat 'lone whur\nit is.\"\n\n\"Why, it'll only take a minute,\" Sam urged. \"You just wait inside the\nstable and you'll have 'em back on again before you could say 'Jack\nRobinson.'\"\n\n\"I ain' got no use to say no Jack Robason,\" said Herman. \"An' I ain' go'\nto han' over my britches fer NO cat!\"\n\n\"Listen here, Herman,\" Penrod began pleadingly. \"You can watch us every\nminute through the crack in the stable door, can't you? We ain't goin'\nto HURT 'em any, are we? You can see everything we do, can't you? Look\nat here, Herman: you know that little saw you said you wished it was\nyours, in the carpenter shop? Well, honest, if you'll just let us take\nyour trousers till we get this poor ole cat out the cistern, I'll give\nyou that little saw.\"\n\nHerman was shaken; he yearned for the little saw.\n\n\"You gimme her to keep?\" he asked cautiously. \"You gimme her befo' I\nhan' over my britches?\"\n\n\"You'll see!\" Penrod ran into the stable, came back with the little saw,\nand placed it in Herman's hand. Herman could resist no longer, and two\nminutes later he stood in the necessary negligee within the shelter of\nthe stable door, and watched, through the crack, the lowering of the\nsurrendered garment into the cistern. His gaze was anxious, and surely\nnothing could have been more natural, since the removal had exposed\nHerman's brown legs, and, although the weather was far from inclement,\nNovember is never quite the month for people to be out of doors entirely\nwithout leg-covering. Therefore, he marked with impatience that Sam and\nPenrod, after lowering the trousers partway to the water, had withdrawn\nthem and fallen into an argument.\n\n\"Name o' goo'ness!\" Herman shouted. \"I ain' got no time fer you all do\nso much talkin'. If you go' git 'at cat out, why'n't you GIT him?\"\n\n\"Wait just a minute,\" Penrod called, and he came running to the stable,\nseized upon a large wooden box, which the carpenters had fitted with\na lid and leather hinges, and returned with it cumbersomely to the\ncistern. \"There!\" he said. \"That'll do to put it in. It won't get out o'\nthat, I bet you.\"\n\n\"Well, I'd like to know what you want to keep it for,\" Sam said\npeevishly, and, with the suggestion of a sneer, he added, \"I s'pose you\nthink somebody'll pay about a hunderd dollars reward or something, on\naccount of a cat!\"\n\n\"I don't, either!\" Penrod protested hotly. \"I know what I'm doin', I\ntell you.\"\n\n\"Well, what on earth--\"\n\n\"I'll tell you some day, won't I?\" Penrod cried. \"I got my reasons for\nwantin' to keep this cat, and I'm goin' to keep it. YOU don't haf to\nke--\"\n\n\"Well, all right,\" Sam said shortly. \"Anyways, it'll be dead if you\ndon't hurry.\"\n\n\"It won't, either,\" Penrod returned, kneeling and peering down upon\nthe dark water. \"Listen to him! He's growlin' and spittin' away like\nanything! It takes a mighty fine-blooded cat to be as fierce as that. I\nbet you most cats would 'a' given up and drowned long ago. The water's\nawful cold, and I expect he was perty supprised when he lit in it.\"\n\n\"Herman's makin' a fuss again,\" Sam said. \"We better get the ole cat out\no' there if we're goin' to.\"\n\n\"Well, this is the way we'll do,\" Penrod said authoritatively: \"I'll let\nyou hold the trousers, Sam. You lay down and keep hold of one leg, and\nlet the other one hang down till its end is in the water. Then you kind\nof swish it around till it's somewheres where the cat can get hold of\nit, and soon as he does, you pull it up, and be mighty careful so's it\ndon't fall off. Then I'll grab it and stick it in the box and slam the\nlid down.\"\n\nRather pleased to be assigned to the trousers, Sam accordingly extended\nhimself at full length upon the slab and proceeded to carry out Penrod's\ninstructions. Meanwhile, Penrod, peering from above, inquired anxiously\nfor information concerning this work of rescue.\n\n\"Can you see it, Sam? Why don't it grab hold? What's it doin' now, Sam?\"\n\n\"It's spittin' at Herman's trousers,\" said Sam. \"My gracious, but it's a\nfierce cat! If it's mad all the time like this, you better not ever try\nto pet it much. Now it's kind o' sniffin' at the trousers. It acks to me\nas if it was goin' to ketch hold. Yes, it's stuck one claw in 'em--OW!\"\n\nSam uttered a blood-curdling shriek and jerked convulsively. The next\ninstant, streaming and inconceivably gaunt, the ravening Gipsy appeared\nwith a final bound upon Sam's shoulder. It was not in Gipsy's character\nto be drawn up peaceably; he had ascended the trousers and Sam's arm\nwithout assistance and in his own way. Simultaneously--for this was a\nnotable case of everything happening at once--there was a muffled, soggy\nsplash, and the unfortunate Herman, smit with prophecy in his seclusion,\nuttered a dismal yell. Penrod laid hands upon Gipsy, and, after a\nstruggle suggestive of sailors landing a man-eating shark, succeeded in\ngetting him into the box, and sat upon the lid thereof.\n\nSam had leaped to his feet, empty handed and vociferous.\n\n\"Ow ow, OUCH!\" he shouted, as he rubbed his suffering arm and shoulder.\nThen, exasperated by Herman's lamentations, he called angrily: \"Oh, what\n_I_ care for your ole britches? I guess if you'd 'a' had a cat climb up\nYOU, you'd 'a' dropped 'em a hunderd times over!\"\n\nHowever, upon excruciating entreaty, he consented to explore the\nsurface of the water with a clothes-prop, but reported that the luckless\ntrousers had disappeared in the depths, Herman having forgotten to\nremove some \"fishin' sinkers\" from his pockets before making the fated\nloan.\n\nPenrod was soothing a lacerated wrist in his mouth.\n\n\"That's a mighty fine-blooded cat,\" he remarked. \"I expect it'd got\naway from pretty near anybody, 'specially if they didn't know much about\ncats. Listen at him, in the box, Sam. I bet you never heard a cat growl\nas loud as that in your life. I shouldn't wonder it was part panther or\nsumpthing.\"\n\nSam began to feel more interest and less resentment.\n\n\"I tell you what we can do, Penrod,\" he said: \"Let's take it in the\nstable and make the box into a cage. We can take off the hinges and\nslide back the lid a little at a time, and nail some o' those laths over\nthe front for bars.\"\n\n\"That's just exackly what I was goin' to say!\" Penrod exclaimed. \"I\nalready thought o' that, Sam. Yessir, we'll make it just like a reg'lar\ncircus-cage, and our good ole cat can look out from between the bars\nand growl. It'll come in pretty handy if we ever decide to have another\nshow. Anyways, we'll have her in there, good and tight, where we can\nwatch she don't get away. I got a mighty good reason to keep this cat,\nSam. You'll see.\"\n\n\"Well, why don't you--\" Sam was interrupted by n vehement appeal from\nthe stable. \"Oh, we're comin'!\" he shouted. \"We got to bring our cat in\nits cage, haven't we?\"\n\n\"Listen, Herman,\" Penrod called absent-mindedly. \"Bring us some bricks,\nor something awful heavy to put on the lid of our cage, so we can carry\nit without our good ole cat pushin' the lid open.\"\n\nHerman explained with vehemence that it would not be right for him to\nleave the stable upon any errand until just restorations had been made.\nHe spoke inimically of the cat that had been the occasion of his loss,\nand he earnestly requested that operations with the clothes-prop be\nresumed in the cistern. Sam and Penrod declined, on the ground that\nthis was absolutely proven to be of no avail, and Sam went to look for\nbricks.\n\nThese two boys were not unfeeling. They sympathized with Herman; but\nthey regarded the trousers as a loss about which there was no use in\nmaking so much outcry. To them, it was part of an episode that ought to\nbe closed. They had done their best, and Sam had not intended to drop\nthe trousers; that was something no one could have helped, and therefore\nno one was to be blamed. What they were now interested in was the\nconstruction of a circus-cage for their good ole cat.\n\n\"It's goin' to be a cage just exactly like circus-cages, Herman,\" Penrod\nsaid, as he and Sam set the box down on the stable floor. \"You can help\nus nail the bars and--\"\n\n\"I ain' studyin' 'bout no bars!\" Herman interrupted fiercely. \"What good\nyou reckon nailin' bars go' do me if Mammy holler fer me? You white boys\nsutn'y show me bad day! I try treat people nice, 'n'en they go th'ow my\nbritches down cistern!\n\n\"I did not!\" Sam protested. \"That ole cat just kicked 'em out o' my hand\nwith its hind feet while its front ones were stickin' in my arm. I bet\nYOU'D of--\"\n\n\"Blame it on cat!\" Herman sneered. \"'At's nice! Jes' looky here minute:\nWho'd I len' 'em britches to? D' I len' 'em britches to thishere cat?\nNo, suh; you know I didn'! You know well's any man I len' 'em britches\nto you--an' you tuck an' th'owed 'em down cistern!\"\n\n\"Oh, PLEASE hush up about your old britches!\" Penrod said plaintively.\n\"I got to think how we're goin' to fix our cage up right, and you make\nso much noise I can't get my mind on it. Anyways, didn't I give you that\nlittle saw?\"\n\n\"Li'l saw!\" Herman cried, unmollified. \"Yes; an' thishere li'l saw go'\ndo me lot o' good when I got to go home!\"\n\n\"Why, it's only across the alley to your house, Herman!\" said Sam. \"That\nain't anything at all to step over there, and you've got your little\nsaw.\"\n\n\"Aw right! You jes' take off you' closes an' step 'cross the alley,\"\nsaid Herman bitterly. \"I give you li'l saw to carry!\"\n\nPenrod had begun to work upon the cage.\n\n\"Now listen here, Herman,\" he said: \"if you'll quit talkin' so much, and\nkind of get settled down or sumpthing, and help us fix a good cage for\nour panther, well, when mamma comes home about five o'clock, I'll go and\ntell her there's a poor boy got his britches burned up in a fire,\nand how he's waitin' out in the stable for some, and I'll tell her I\npromised him. Well, she'll give me a pair I wore for summer; honest she\nwill, and you can put 'em on as quick as anything.\"\n\n\"There, Herman,\" said Sam; \"now you're all right again!\"\n\n\"WHO all right?\" Herman complained. \"I like feel sump'm' roun' my laigs\nbefo' no five o'clock!\"\n\n\"Well, you're sure to get 'em by then,\" Penrod promised. \"It ain't\nwinter yet, Herman. Come on and help saw these laths for the bars,\nHerman, and Sam and I'll nail 'em on. It ain't long till five o'clock,\nHerman, and then you'll just feel fine!\"\n\nHerman was not convinced; but he found himself at a disadvantage in the\nargument. The question at issue seemed a vital one to him--and yet his\ntwo opponents evidently considered it of minor importance. Obviously,\nthey felt that the promise for five o'clock had settled the whole matter\nconclusively; but to Herman this did not appear to be the fact. However,\nhe helplessly suffered himself to be cajoled back into carpentry, though\nhe was extremely ill at ease and talked a great deal of his misfortune.\nHe shivered and grumbled, and, by his passionate urgings, compelled\nPenrod to go into the house so many times to see what time it was by the\nkitchen clock that both his companions almost lost patience with him.\n\n\"There!\" said Penrod, returning from performing this errand for the\nfourth time. \"It's twenty minutes after three, and I'm not goin' in\nto look at that ole clock again if I haf to die for it! I never heard\nanybody make such a fuss in my life, and I'm gettin' tired of it. Must\nthink we want to be all night fixin' this cage for our panther! If you\nask me to go and see what time it is again, Herman, I'm a-goin' to take\nback about askin' mamma at five o'clock, and THEN where'll you be?\"\n\n\"Well, it seem like mighty long aft'noon to me,\" Herman sighed. \"I jes'\nlike to know what time it is gettin' to be now!\"\n\n\"Look out!\" Penrod warned him. \"You heard what I was just tellin' you\nabout how I'd take back--\"\n\n\"Nemmine,\" Herman said hurriedly. \"I wasn' astin' you. I jes' sayin'\nsump'm' kind o' to myse'f like.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. CAMERA WORK IN THE JUNGLE\n\nThe completed cage, with Gipsy behind the bars, framed a spectacle\nsufficiently thrilling and panther-like. Gipsy raved, \"spat\", struck\nvirulently at taunting fingers, turned on his wailing siren for minutes\nat a time, and he gave his imitation of a dromedary almost continuously.\nThese phenomena could be intensified in picturesqueness, the boys\ndiscovered, by rocking the cage a little, tapping it with a hammer,\nor raking the bars with a stick. Altogether, Gipsy was having a lively\nafternoon.\n\nThere came a vigorous rapping on the alley door of the stable, and\nVerman was admitted.\n\n\"Yay, Verman!\" cried Sam Williams. \"Come and look at our good ole\npanther!\"\n\nAnother curiosity, however, claimed Verman's attention. His eyes opened\nwide, and he pointed at Herman's legs.\n\n\"Wha' ma' oo? Mammy hay oo hip ap hoe-woob.\"\n\n\"Mammy tell ME git 'at stove-wood?\" Herman interpreted resentfully.\n\"How'm I go' git 'at stove-wood when my britches down bottom 'at\ncistern, I like you answer ME please? You shet 'at do' behime you!\"\n\nVerman complied, and again pointing to his brother's legs, requested to\nbe enlightened.\n\n\"Sin' I tole you once they down bottom 'at cistern,\" Herman shouted,\nmuch exasperated. \"You wan' know how come so, you ast Sam Williams. He\nsay thishere cat tuck an' th'owed 'em down there!\"\n\nSam, who was busy rocking the cage, remained cheerfully absorbed in that\noccupation.\n\n\"Come look at our good ole panther, Verman,\" he called. \"I'll get this\ncircus-cage rockin' right good, an' then--\"\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" said Penrod; \"I got sumpthing I got to think about.\nQuit rockin' it! I guess I got a right to think about sumpthing without\nhavin' to go deaf, haven't I?\"\n\nHaving obtained the quiet so plaintively requested, he knit his brow and\ngazed intently upon Verman, then upon Herman, then upon Gipsy. Evidently\nhis idea was fermenting. He broke the silence with a shout.\n\n\"_I_ know, Sam! I know what we'll do NOW! I just thought of it, and it's\ngoin' to be sumpthing I bet there aren't any other boys in this town\ncould do, because where would they get any good ole panther like we got,\nand Herman and Verman? And they'd haf to have a dog, too--and we got\nour good ole Dukie, I guess. I bet we have the greatest ole time this\nafternoon we ever had in our lives!\"\n\nHis enthusiasm roused the warm interest of Sam--and Verman, though\nHerman, remaining cold and suspicious, asked for details.\n\n\"An' I like to hear if it's sump'm',\" he concluded, \"what's go' git me\nmy britches back outen 'at cistern!\"\n\n\"Well, it ain't exackly that,\" said Penrod. \"It's different from that.\nWhat I'm thinkin' about, well, for us to have it the way it ought to be,\nso's you and Verman would look like natives--well, Verman ought to take\noff his britches, too.\"\n\n\"Mo!\" said Verman, shaking his head violently. \"Mo!\"\n\n\"Well, wait a minute, can't you?\" Sam Williams said. \"Give Penrod a\nchance to say what he wants to, first, can't you? Go on, Penrod.\"\n\n\"Well, you know, Sam,\" said Penrod, turning to this sympathetic auditor;\n\"you remember that movin'-pitcher show we went to, 'Fortygraphing Wild\nAnimals in the Jungle'. Well, Herman wouldn't have to do a thing more to\nlook like those natives we saw that the man called the 'beaters'. They\nwere dressed just about like the way he is now, and if Verman--\"\n\n\"MO!\" said Verman.\n\n\"Oh, WAIT a minute, Verman!\" Sam entreated. \"Go on, Penrod.\"\n\n\"Well, we can make a mighty good jungle up in the loft,\" Penrod\ncontinued eagerly. \"We can take that ole dead tree that's out in the\nalley and some branches, and I bet we could have the best jungle you\never saw. And then we'd fix up a kind of place in there for our panther,\nonly, of course, we'd haf to keep him in the cage so's he wouldn't run\naway; but we'd pretend he was loose. And then you remember how they\ndid with that calf? Well, we'd have Duke for the tied-up calf for the\npanther to come out and jump on, so they could fortygraph him. Herman\ncan be the chief beater, and we'll let Verman be the other beaters, and\nI'll--\"\n\n\"Yay!\" shouted Sam Williams. \"I'll be the fortygraph man!\"\n\n\"No,\" said Penrod; \"you be the one with the gun that guards the\nfortygraph man, because I'm the fortygraph man already. You can fix up a\nmighty good gun with this carpenter shop, Sam. We'll make spears for\nour good ole beaters, too, and I'm goin' to make me a camera out o' that\nlittle starch-box and a bakin'-powder can that's goin' to be a mighty\ngood ole camera. We can do lots more things--\"\n\n\"Yay!\" Sam cried. \"Let's get started!\" He paused. \"Wait a minute,\nPenrod. Verman says he won't--\"\n\n\"Well, he's got to!\" said Penrod.\n\n\"I momp!\" Verman insisted, almost distinctly.\n\nThey began to argue with him; but, for a time, Verman remained firm.\nThey upheld the value of dramatic consistency, declaring that a beater\ndressed as completely as he was \"wouldn't look like anything at all\". He\nwould \"spoil the whole biznuss\", they said, and they praised Herman\nfor the faithful accuracy of his costume. They also insisted that the\ngarment in question was much too large for Verman, anyway, having been\nso recently worn by Herman and turned over to Verman with insufficient\nalteration, and they expressed surprise that \"anybody with any sense\"\nshould make such a point of clinging to a misfit.\n\nHerman sided against his brother in this controversy, perhaps because a\ncertain loneliness, of which he was censcious, might be assuaged by the\ncompany of another trouserless person--or it may be that his motive was\nmore sombre. Possibly he remembered that Verman's trousers were his own\nformer property and might fit him in case the promise for five o'clock\nturned out badly. At all events, Verman finally yielded under great\npressure, and consented to appear in the proper costume of the multitude\nof beaters it now became his duty to personify.\n\nShouting, the boys dispersed to begin the preparation of their jungle\nscene. Sam and Penrod went for branches and the dead tree, while Herman\nand Verman carried the panther in his cage to the loft, where the\nfirst thing that Verman did was to hang his trousers on a nail in a\nconspicuous and accessible spot near the doorway. And with the arrival\nof Penrod and Sam, panting and dragging no inconsiderable thicket after\nthem, the coloured brethren began to take a livelier interest in things.\nIndeed, when Penrod, a little later, placed in their hands two spears,\npointed with tin, their good spirits were entirely restored, and they\neven began to take a pride in being properly uncostumed beaters.\n\nSam's gun and Penrod's camera were entirely satisfactory, especially the\nlatter. The camera was so attractive, in fact, that the hunter and the\nchief beater and all the other beaters immediately resigned and insisted\nupon being photographers. Each had to be given a \"turn\" before the\njungle project could be resumed.\n\n\"Now, for goodnesses' sakes,\" said Penrod, taking the camera from\nVerman, \"I hope you're done, so's we can get started doin something like\nwe ought to! We got to have Duke for a tied-up calf. We'll have to bring\nhim and tie him out here in front the jungle, and then the panther'll\ncome out and jump on him. Wait, and I'll go bring him.\"\n\nDeparting upon this errand, Penrod found Duke enjoying the declining\nrays of the sun in the front yard.\n\n\"Hyuh, Duke!\" called his master, in an indulgent tone. \"Come on, good\nole Dukie! Come along!\"\n\nDuke rose conscientiously and followed him.\n\n\"I got him, men!\" Penrod called from the stairway. \"I got our good\nole calf all ready to be tied up. Here he is!\" And he appeared in the\ndoorway with the unsuspecting little dog beside him.\n\nGipsy, who had been silent for some moments, instantly raised his\nbanshee battlecry, and Duke yelped in horror. Penrod made a wild effort\nto hold him; but Duke was not to be detained. Unnatural strength and\nactivity came to him in his delirium, and, for the second or two that\nthe struggle lasted, his movements were too rapid for the eyes of the\nspectators to follow--merely a whirl and blur in the air could be seen.\nThen followed a sound of violent scrambling and Penrod sprawled alone at\nthe top of the stairs.\n\n\"Well, why'n't you come and help me?\" he demanded indignantly. \"I\ncouldn't get him back now if I was to try a million years!\"\n\n\"What we goin' to do about it?\" Sam asked.\n\nPenrod rose and dusted his knees. \"We got to get along without any\ntied-up calf--that's certain! But I got to take those fortygraphs SOME\nway or other!\"\n\n\"Me an' Verman aw ready begin 'at beatin',\" Herman suggested. \"You tole\nus we the beaters.\"\n\n\"Well, wait a minute,\" said Penrod, whose feeling for realism in drama\nwas always alert. \"I want to get a mighty good pitcher o' that ole\npanther this time.\" As he spoke, he threw open the wide door intended\nfor the delivery of hay into the loft from the alley below. \"Now, bring\nthe cage over here by this door so's I can get a better light; it's\ngettin' kind of dark over where the jungle is. We'll pretend there isn't\nany cage there, and soon as I get him fortygraphed, I'll holler, 'Shoot,\nmen!' Then you must shoot, Sam--and Herman, you and Verman must hammer\non the cage with your spears, and holler: 'Hoo! Hoo!' and pretend you're\nspearin' him.\"\n\n\"Well, we aw ready!\" said Herman. \"Hoo! Hoo!\"\n\n\"Wait a minute,\" Penrod interposed, frowningly surveying the cage. \"I\ngot to squat too much to get my camera fixed right.\" He assumed various\nsolemn poses, to be interpreted as those of a photographer studying his\nsubject. \"No,\" he said finally; \"it won't take good that way.\"\n\n\"My gootness!\" Herman exclaimed. \"When we goin' begin 'at beatin'?\"\n\n\"Here!\" Apparently Penrod had solved a weighty problem. \"Bring that\nbusted ole kitchen chair, and set the panther up on it. There! THAT'S\nthe ticket! This way, it'll make a mighty good pitcher!\" He turned to\nSam importantly. \"Well, Jim, is the chief and all his beaters here?\"\n\n\"Yes, Bill; all here,\" Sam responded, with an air of loyalty.\n\n\"Well, then, I guess we're ready,\" said Penrod, in his deepest voice.\n\"Beat, men.\"\n\nHerman and Verman were anxious to beat. They set up the loudest uproar\nof which they were capable. \"Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!\" they bellowed, flailing\nthe branches with their spears and stamping heavily upon the floor.\nSam, carried away by the elan of the performance, was unable to resist\njoining them. \"Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!\" he shouted. \"Hoo! Hoo! Hoo!\" And as the\ndust rose from the floor to their stamping, the three of them produced\nsuch a din and hoo-hooing as could be made by nothing on earth except\nboys.\n\n\"Back, men!\" Penrod called, raising his voice to the utmost. \"Back for\nyour lives. The PA-A-ANTHER! Now I'm takin' his pitcher. Click, click!\nShoot, men; shoot!\"\n\n\"Bing! Bing!\" shouted Sam, levelling his gun at the cage, while Herman\nand Verman hammered upon it, and Gipsy cursed boys, the world and the\nday he was born. \"Bing! Bing! Bing!\"\n\n\"You missed him!\" screamed Penrod. \"Give me that gun!\" And snatching it\nfrom Sam's unwilling hand, he levelled it at the cage.\n\n\"BING!\" he roared.\n\nSimultaneously there was the sound of another report; but this was an\nactual one and may best be symbolized by the statement that it was a\nwhack. The recipient was Herman, and, outrageously surprised and pained,\nhe turned to find himself face to face with a heavily built coloured\nwoman who had recently ascended the stairs and approached the\npreoccupied hunters from the rear. In her hand was a lath, and, even as\nHerman turned, it was again wielded, this time upon Verman.\n\n\"MAMMY!\"\n\n\"Yes; you bettuh holler, 'Mammy!\"' she panted. \"My goo'ness, if yo'\npappy don' lam you to-night! Ain' you got no mo' sense 'an to let white\nboys 'suede you play you Affikin heathums? Whah you britches?\"\n\n\"Yonnuh Verman's,\" quavered Herman.\n\n\"Whah y'own?\"\n\nChoking, Herman answered bravely:\n\n\"'At ole cat tuck an' th'owed 'em down cistern!\"\n\nExasperated almost beyond endurance, she lifted the lath again. But\nunfortunately, in order to obtain a better field of action, she moved\nbackward a little, coming in contact with the bars of the cage, a\ncircumstance that she overlooked. More unfortunately still, the longing\nof the captive to express his feelings was such that he would have\nwelcomed the opportunity to attack an elephant. He had been striking\nand scratching at inanimate things and at boys out of reach for the past\nhour; but here at last was his opportunity. He made the most of it.\n\n\"I learn you tell me cat th'owed--OOOOH!\"\n\nThe coloured woman leaped into the air like an athlete, and, turning\nwith a swiftness astounding in one of her weight, beheld the semaphoric\narm of Gipsy again extended between the bars and hopefully reaching for\nher. Beside herself, she lifted her right foot briskly from the ground,\nand allowed the sole of her shoe to come in contact with Gipsy's cage.\n\nThe cage moved from the tottering chair beneath it. It passed through\nthe yawning hay-door and fell resoundingly to the alley below, where--as\nPenrod and Sam, with cries of dismay, rushed to the door and looked\ndown--it burst asunder and disgorged a large, bruised and chastened\ncat. Gipsy paused and bent one strange look upon the broken box. Then he\nshook his head and departed up the alley, the two boys watching him till\nhe was out of sight.\n\nBefore they turned, a harrowing procession issued from the\ncarriage-house doors beneath them. Herman came first, hurriedly\ncompleting a temporary security in Verman's trousers. Verman followed,\nafter a little reluctance that departed coincidentally with some\ninspiriting words from the rear. He crossed the alley hastily, and his\nMammy stalked behind, using constant eloquence and a frequent lath. They\nwent into the small house across the way and closed the door.\n\nThen Sam turned to Penrod.\n\n\"Penrod,\" he said thoughtfully, \"was it on account of fortygraphing in\nthe jungle you wanted to keep that cat?\"\n\n\"No; that was a mighty fine-blooded cat. We'd of made some money.\"\n\nSam jeered.\n\n\"You mean when we'd sell tickets to look at it in its cage?\"\n\nPenrod shook his head, and if Gipsy could have overheard and understood\nhis reply, that atrabilious spirit, almost broken by the events of the\nday, might have considered this last blow the most overwhelming of all.\n\n\"No,\" said Penrod; \"when she had kittens.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV. A MODEL LETTER TO A FRIEND\n\nOn Monday morning Penrod's faith in the coming of another Saturday\nwas flaccid and lustreless. Those Japanese lovers who were promised a\nreunion after ten thousand years in separate hells were brighter with\nhope than he was. On Monday Penrod was virtually an agnostic.\n\nNowhere upon his shining morning face could have been read any eager\nanticipation of useful knowledge. Of course he had been told that school\nwas for his own good; in fact, he had been told and told and told, but\nthe words conveying this information, meaningless at first, assumed,\nwith each repetition, more and more the character of dull and\nunsolicited insult.\n\nHe was wholly unable to imagine circumstances, present or future, under\nwhich any of the instruction and training he was now receiving could\nbe of the slightest possible use or benefit to himself; and when he was\ninformed that such circumstances would frequently arise in his later\nlife, he but felt the slur upon his coming manhood and its power to\nprevent any such unpleasantness.\n\nIf it were possible to place a romantic young Broadway actor and athlete\nunder hushing supervision for six hours a day, compelling him to\nbend his unremittent attention upon the city directory of Sheboygan,\nWisconsin, he could scarce be expected to respond genially to frequent\nstatements that the compulsion was all for his own good. On the\ncontrary, it might be reasonable to conceive his response as taking the\nform of action, which is precisely the form that Penrod's smouldering\nimpulse yearned to take.\n\nTo Penrod school was merely a state of confinement, envenomed by\nmathematics. For interminable periods he was forced to listen to\ninformation concerning matters about which he had no curiosity whatever;\nand he had to read over and over the dullest passages in books that\nbored him into stupors, while always there overhung the preposterous\ntask of improvising plausible evasions to conceal the fact that he\ndid not know what he had no wish to know. Likewise, he must always be\nprepared to avoid incriminating replies to questions that he felt nobody\nhad a real and natural right to ask him. And when his gorge rose and his\ninwards revolted, the hours became a series of ignoble misadventures and\npetty disgraces strikingly lacking in privacy.\n\nIt was usually upon Wednesday that his sufferings culminated; the\nnervous strength accumulated during the holiday hours at the end of the\nweek would carry him through Monday and Tuesday; but by Wednesday it\nseemed ultimately proven that the next Saturday actually never was\ncoming, \"this time\", and the strained spirit gave way. Wednesday was the\nday averaging highest in Penrod's list of absences; but the time came\nwhen he felt that the advantages attendant upon his Wednesday \"sick\nheadache\" did not compensate for its inconveniences.\n\nFor one thing, this illness had become so symmetrically recurrent that\neven the cook felt that he was pushing it too far, and the liveliness of\nher expression, when he was able to leave his couch and take the air in\nthe backyard at about ten o'clock, became more disagreeable to him\nwith each convalescence. There visibly increased, too, about the whole\nhousehold, an atmosphere of uncongeniality and suspicion so pronounced\nthat every successive illness was necessarily more severe, and at last\nthe patient felt obliged to remain bedded until almost eleven, from\ntime to time giving forth pathetic little sounds eloquent of anguish\ntriumphing over Stoic endurance, yet lacking a certain conviction of\nutterance.\n\nFinally, his father enacted, and his mother applied, a new and\ndistinctly special bit of legislation, explaining it with simple candour\nto the prospective beneficiary.\n\n\"Whenever you really ARE sick,\" they said, \"you can go out and play as\nsoon as you're well--that is, if it happens on Saturday. But when you're\nsick on a school-day, you'll stay in bed till the next morning. This is\ngoing to do you good, Penrod.\"\n\nPhysically, their opinion appeared to be affirmed, for Wednesday after\nWednesday passed without any recurrence of the attack; but the spiritual\nstrain may have been damaging. And it should be added that if Penrod's\nhigher nature did suffer from the strain, he was not unique. For,\nconfirming the effect of Wednesday upon boys in general, it is probable\nthat, if full statistics concerning cats were available, they would\nshow that cats dread Wednesdays, and that their fear is shared by\nother animals, and would be shared, to an extent by windows, if windows\npossessed nervous systems. Nor must this probable apprehension on\nthe part of cats and the like be thought mere superstition. Cats have\nsuperstitions, it is true; but certain actions inspired by the sight of\na boy with a missile in his hand are better evidence of the workings of\nlogic upon a practical nature than of faith in the supernatural.\n\nMoreover, the attention of family physicians and specialists should be\ndrawn to these significant though obscure phenomena; for the suffering\nof cats is a barometer of the nerve-pressure of boys, and it may\nbe accepted as sufficiently established that Wednesday--after\nschool-hours--is the worst time for cats.\n\nAfter the promulgation of that parental edict, \"You'll stay in bed till\nthe next morning\", four weeks went by unflawed by a single absence from\nthe field of duty; but, when the fifth Wednesday came, Penrod held sore\ndebate within himself before he finally rose. In fact, after rising,\nand while actually engaged with his toilet, he tentatively emitted\nthe series of little moans that was his wonted preliminary to a quiet\nholiday at home; and the sound was heard (as intended) by Mr. Schofield,\nwho was passing Penrod's door on his way to breakfast.\n\n\"ALL right!\" the father said, making use of peculiar and unnecessary\nemphasis. \"Stay in bed till to-morrow morning. Castor-oil, this time,\ntoo.\"\n\nPenrod had not hoped much for his experiment; nevertheless his\nrebellious blood was sensibly inflamed by the failure, and he\naccompanied his dressing with a low murmuring--apparently a bitter\ndialogue between himself and some unknown but powerful patron.\n\nThus he muttered:\n\n\"Well, they better NOT!\" \"Well, what can I DO about it?\" \"Well, I'D show\n'em!\" \"Well, I WILL show 'em!\" \"Well, you OUGHT to show 'em; that's the\nway _I_ do! I just shake 'em around, and say, 'Here! I guess you don't\nknow who you're talkin' to like that! You better look out!'\" \"Well,\nthat's the way _I_'m goin' to do!\" \"Well, go on and DO it, then!\" \"Well,\nI AM goin'--\"\n\nThe door of the next room was slightly ajar; now it swung wide, and\nMargaret appeared.\n\n\"Penrod, what on earth are you talking about?\"\n\n\"Nothin'. None o' your--\"\n\n\"Well, hurry to breakfast, then; it's getting late.\"\n\nLightly she went, humming a tune, leaving the door of her room open, and\nthe eyes of Penrod, as he donned his jacket, chanced to fall upon her\ndesk, where she had thoughtlessly left a letter--a private missive just\nbegun, and intended solely for the eyes of Mr. Robert Williams, a senior\nat a far university.\n\nIn such a fashion is coincidence the architect of misfortune. Penrod's\nclass in English composition had been instructed, the previous day, to\nconcoct at home and bring to class on Wednesday morning, \"a model letter\nto a friend on some subject of general interest.\" Penalty for omission\nto perform this simple task was definite; whosoever brought no letter\nwould inevitably be \"kept in\" after school, that afternoon, until\nthe letter was written, and it was precisely a premonition of this\nmisfortune that had prompted Penrod to attempt his experimental moaning\nupon his father, for, alas! he had equipped himself with no model\nletter, nor any letter whatever.\n\nIn stress of this kind, a boy's creed is that anything is worth a try;\nbut his eye for details is poor. He sees the future too sweepingly and\ntoo much as he would have it seldom providing against inconsistencies of\nevidence that may damage him. For instance, there is a well-known\ncase of two brothers who exhibited to their parents, with pathetic\nconfidence, several imported dried herring on a string, as a proof that\nthe afternoon had been spent, not at a forbidden circus, but with hook\nand line upon the banks of a neighbouring brook.\n\nSo with Penrod. He had vital need of a letter, and there before his\neyes, upon Margaret's desk, was apparently the precise thing he needed!\n\nFrom below rose the voice of his mother urging him to the\nbreakfast-table, warning him that he stood in danger of tardiness at\nschool; he was pressed for time, and acted upon an inspiration that\nfailed to prompt him even to read the letter.\n\nHurriedly he wrote \"Dear freind\" at the top of the page Margaret had\npartially filled. Then he signed himself \"Yours respectfuly, Penrod\nSchofield\" at the bottom, and enclosed the missive within a battered\nvolume entitled, \"Principles of English Composition.\" With that and\nother books compacted by a strap, he descended to a breakfast somewhat\noppressive but undarkened by any misgivings concerning a \"letter to a\nfriend on some subject of general interest.\" He felt that a difficulty\nhad been encountered and satisfactorily disposed of; the matter could\nnow be dismissed from his mind. He had plenty of other difficulties to\ntake its place.\n\nNo; he had no misgivings, nor was he assailed by anything unpleasant\nin that line, even when the hour struck for the class in English\ncomposition. If he had been two or three years older, experience might\nhave warned him to take at least the precaution of copying his offering,\nso that it would appear in his own handwriting when he \"handed it in\";\nbut Penrod had not even glanced at it.\n\n\"I think,\" Miss Spence said, \"I will ask several of you to read your\nletters aloud before you hand them in. Clara Raypole, you may read\nyours.\"\n\nPenrod was bored but otherwise comfortable; he had no apprehension\nthat he might be included in the \"several,\" especially as Miss Spence's\nbeginning with Clara Raypole, a star performer, indicated that her\nselection of readers would be made from the conscientious and proficient\ndivision at the head of the class. He listened stoically to the\nbeginning of the first letter, though he was conscious of a dull\nresentment, inspired mainly by the perfect complacency of Miss Raypole's\nvoice.\n\n\"'Dear Cousin Sadie,'\" she began smoothly, \"'I thought I would write\nyou to-day on some subject of general interest, and so I thought I\nwould tell you about the subject of our court-house. It is a very fine\nbuilding situated in the centre of the city, and a visit to the building\nafter school hours well repays for the visit. Upon entrance we find upon\nour left the office of the county clerk and upon our right a number of\nwindows affording a view of the street. And so we proceed, finding on\nboth sides much of general interest. The building was begun in 1886\nA.D. and it was through in 1887 A.D. It is four stories high and made\nof stone, pressed brick, wood, and tiles, with a tower, or cupola, one\nhundred and twenty-seven feet seven inches from the ground. Among other\nsubjects of general interest told by the janitor, we learn that the\narchitect of the building was a man named Flanner, and the foundations\nextend fifteen feet five inches under the ground.'\"\n\nPenrod was unable to fix his attention upon these statistics; he began\nmoodily to twist a button of his jacket and to concentrate a new-born\nand obscure but lasting hatred upon the court-house. Miss Raypole's glib\nvoice continued to press upon his ears; but, by keeping his eyes fixed\nupon the twisting button he had accomplished a kind of self-hypnosis, or\nmental anaesthesia, and was but dimly aware of what went on about him.\n\nThe court-house was finally exhausted by its visitor, who resumed her\nseat and submitted with beamish grace to praise. Then Miss Spence said,\nin a favourable manner:\n\n\"Georgie Bassett, you may read your letter next.\"\n\nThe neat Georgie rose, nothing loath, and began: \"'Dear Teacher--'\"\n\nThere was a slight titter, which Miss Spence suppressed. Georgie was not\nat all discomfited.\n\n\"'My mother says,'\" he continued, reading his manuscript, \"'we should\ntreat our teacher as a friend, and so _I_ will write YOU a letter.'\"\n\nThis penetrated Penrod's trance, and he lifted his eyes to fix them upon\nthe back of Georgie Bassett's head in a long and inscrutable stare. It\nwas inscrutable, and yet if Georgie had been sensitive to thought waves,\nit is probable that he would have uttered a loud shriek; but he remained\nplacidly unaware, continuing:\n\n\"'I thought I would write you about a subject of general interest, and\nso I will write you about the flowers. There are many kinds of flowers,\nspring flowers, and summer flowers, and autumn flowers, but no winter\nflowers. Wild flowers grow in the woods, and it is nice to hunt them in\nspringtime, and we must remember to give some to the poor and hospitals,\nalso. Flowers can be made to grow in flower-beds and placed in vases in\nhouses. There are many names for flowers, but _I_ call them \"nature's\nornaments.--'\"\n\nPenrod's gaze had relaxed, drooped to his button again, and his lethargy\nwas renewed. The outer world grew vaguer; voices seemed to drone at a\ndistance; sluggish time passed heavily--but some of it did pass.\n\n\"Penrod!\"\n\nMiss Spence's searching eye had taken note of the bent head and the\ntwisting button. She found it necessary to speak again.\n\n\"Penrod Schofield!\"\n\nHe came languidly to life.\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"You may read your letter.\"\n\n\"Yes'm.\"\n\nAnd he began to paw clumsily among his books, whereupon Miss Spence's\nglance fired with suspicion.\n\n\"Have you prepared one?\" she demanded.\n\n\"Yes'm,\" said Penrod dreamily.\n\n\"But you're going to find you forgot to bring it, aren't you?\"\n\n\"I got it,\" said Penrod, discovering the paper in his \"Principles of\nEnglish Composition.\"\n\n\"Well, we'll listen to what you've found time to prepare,\" she said,\nadding coldly, \"for once!\"\n\nThe frankest pessimism concerning Penrod permeated the whole room; even\nthe eyes of those whose letters had not met with favour turned upon him\nwith obvious assurance that here was every prospect of a performance\nthat would, by comparison, lend a measure of credit to the worst\npreceding it. But Penrod was unaffected by the general gaze; he rose,\nstill blinking from his lethargy, and in no true sense wholly alive.\n\nHe had one idea: to read as rapidly as possible, so as to be done with\nthe task, and he began in a high-pitched monotone, reading with a blind\nmind and no sense of the significance of the words.\n\n\"'Dear friend,\"' he declaimed. \"'You call me beautiful, but I am not\nreally beautiful, and there are times when I doubt if I am even pretty,\nthough perhaps my hair is beautiful, and if it is true that my eyes are\nlike blue stars in heaven--'\"\n\nSimultaneously he lost his breath and there burst upon him a perception\nof the results to which he was being committed by this calamitous\nreading. And also simultaneous the outbreak of the class into\ncachinnations of delight, severely repressed by the perplexed but\nindignant Miss Spence.\n\n\"Go on!\" she commanded grimly, when she had restored order.\n\n\"Ma'am?\" he gulped, looking wretchedly upon the rosy faces all about\nhim.\n\n\"Go on with the description of yourself,\" she said. \"We'd like to hear\nsome more about your eyes being like blue stars in heaven.\"\n\nHere many of Penrod's little comrades were forced to clasp their faces\ntightly in both hands; and his dismayed gaze, in refuge, sought the\ntreacherous paper in his hand.\n\nWhat it beheld there was horrible.\n\n\"Proceed!\" Miss Spence said.\n\n\"'I--often think,'\" he faltered, \"'and a-a tree-more th-thrills my bein'\nwhen I REcall your last words to me--that last--that last--that--'\"\n\n\"GO ON!\"\n\n\"'That last evening in the moonlight when you--you--you--'\"\n\n\"Penrod,\" Miss Spence said dangerously, \"you go on, and stop that\nstammering.\"\n\n\"'You--you said you would wait for--for years to--to--to--to--\"\n\n\"PENROD!\"\n\n\"'To win me!'\" the miserable Penrod managed to gasp. \"'I should not\nhave pre--premitted--permitted you to speak so until we have our--our\nparents' con-consent; but oh, how sweet it--'\" He exhaled a sigh\nof agony, and then concluded briskly, \"'Yours respectfully, Penrod\nSchofield.'\"\n\nBut Miss Spence had at last divined something, for she knew the\nSchofield family.\n\n\"Bring me that letter!\" she said.\n\nAnd the scarlet boy passed forward between rows of mystified but\nimmoderately uplifted children.\n\nMiss Spence herself grew rather pink as she examined the missive, and\nthe intensity with which she afterward extended her examination to\ncover the complete field of Penrod Schofield caused him to find a remote\ncentre of interest whereon to rest his embarrassed gaze. She let him\nstand before her throughout a silence, equalled, perhaps, by the tenser\npauses during trials for murder, and then, containing herself, she\nsweepingly gestured him to the pillory--a chair upon the platform,\nfacing the school.\n\nHere he suffered for the unusual term of an hour, with many jocular and\ncunning eyes constantly upon him; and, when he was released at noon,\nhorrid shouts and shrieks pursued him every step of his homeward way.\nFor his laughter-loving little schoolmates spared him not--neither boy\nnor girl.\n\n\"Yay, Penrod!\" they shouted. \"How's your beautiful hair?\" And, \"Hi,\nPenrod! When you goin' to get your parents' consent?\" And, \"Say, blue\nstars in heaven, how's your beautiful eyes?\" And, \"Say, Penrod, how's\nyour tree-mores?\" \"Does your tree-mores thrill your bein', Penrod?\" And\nmany other facetious inquiries, hard to bear in public.\n\nAnd when he reached the temporary shelter of his home, he experienced\nno relief upon finding that Margaret was out for lunch. He was as deeply\nembittered toward her as toward any other, and, considering her largely\nresponsible for his misfortune, he would have welcomed an opportunity to\nshow her what he thought of her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. WEDNESDAY MADNESS\n\nHow long he was \"kept in\" after school that afternoon is not a matter of\nrecord; but it was long. Before he finally appeared upon the street, he\nhad composed an ample letter on a subject of general interest, namely\n\"School Life\", under the supervision of Miss Spencer. He had also\nreceived some scorching admonitions in respect to honourable behaviour\nregarding other people's letters; and Margaret's had been returned to\nhim with severe instructions to bear it straight to the original owner\naccompanied by full confession and apology. As a measure of insurance\nthat these things be done, Miss Spence stated definitely her intention\nto hold a conversation by telephone with Margaret that evening.\nAltogether, the day had been unusually awful, even for Wednesday, and\nPenrod left the school-house with the heart of an anarchist throbbing\nin his hot bosom. It were more accurate, indeed, to liken him to the\nanarchist's characteristic weapon; for as Penrod came out to the street\nhe was, in all inward respects, a bomb, loaded and ticking.\n\nHe walked moodily, with a visible aspect of soreness. A murmurous\nsound was thick about his head, wherefore it is to be surmised that he\ncommuned with his familiar, and one vehement, oft-repeated phrase beat\nlike a tocsin of revolt upon the air: \"Daw-gone 'em!\"\n\nHe meant everybody--the universe.\n\nParticularly included, evidently, was a sparrow, offensively cheerful\nupon a lamp-post. This self-centred little bird allowed a pebble to pass\noverhead and remained unconcerned, but, a moment later, feeling a jar\nbeneath his feet, and hearing the tinkle of falling glass, he decided\nto leave. Similarly, and at the same instant, Penrod made the same\ndecision, and the sparrow in flight took note of a boy likewise in\nflight.\n\nThe boy disappeared into the nearest alley and emerged therefrom,\nbreathless, in the peaceful vicinity of his own home. He entered the\nhouse, clumped upstairs and down, discovered Margaret reading a book in\nthe library, and flung the accursed letter toward her with loathing.\n\n\"You can take the old thing,\" he said bitterly. \"_I_ don't want it!\"\n\nAnd before she was able to reply, he was out of the room. The next\nmoment he was out of the house.\n\n\"Daw-GONE 'em!\" he said.\n\nAnd then, across the street, his soured eye fell upon his true comrade\nand best friend leaning against a picket fence and holding desultory\nconverse with Mabel Rorebeck, an attractive member of the Friday\nAfternoon Dancing Class, that hated organization of which Sam and Penrod\nwere both members. Mabel was a shy little girl; but Penrod had a vague\nunderstanding that Sam considered her two brown pig-tails beautiful.\n\nHowbeit, Sam had never told his love; he was, in fact, sensitive about\nit. This meeting with the lady was by chance, and, although it afforded\nexquisite moments, his heart was beating in an unaccustomed manner, and\nhe was suffering from embarrassment, being at a loss, also, for subjects\nof conversation. It is, indeed, no easy matter to chat easily with a\nperson, however lovely and beloved, who keeps her face turned the other\nway, maintains one foot in rapid and continuous motion through an arc\nseemingly perilous to her equilibrium, and confines her responses, both\naffirmative and negative, to \"Uh-huh.\"\n\nAltogether, Sam was sufficiently nervous without any help from Penrod,\nand it was with pure horror that he heard his own name and Mabel's\nshrieked upon the ambient air with viperish insinuation.\n\n\"Sam-my and May-bul! OH, oh!\"\n\nSam started violently. Mabel ceased to swing her foot, and both,\nencarnadined, looked up and down and everywhere for the invisible but\nwell-known owner of that voice. It came again, in taunting mockery:\n\n       \"Sammy's mad, and I am glad,\n     And I know what will please him:\n       A bottle o' wine to make him shine,\n     And Mabel Rorebeck to squeeze him!\"\n\n\"Fresh ole thing!\" said Miss Rorebeck, becoming articulate. And\nunreasonably including Sam in her indignation, she tossed her head at\nhim with an unmistakable effect of scorn. She began to walk away.\n\n\"Well, Mabel,\" Sam said plaintively, following, \"it ain't MY fault. _I_\ndidn't do anything. It's Penrod.\"\n\n\"I don't care,\" she began pettishly, when the viperish voice was again\nlifted:\n\n\"Oh, oh, oh! Who's your beau? Guess _I_ know: Mabel and Sammy, oh, oh,\noh! _I_ caught you!\"\n\nThen Mabel did one of those things that eternally perplex the slower\nsex. She deliberately made a face, not at the tree behind which Penrod\nwas lurking, but at the innocent and heart-wrung Sam. \"You needn't come\nlimpin' after me, Sam Williams!\" she said, though Sam was approaching\nupon two perfectly sound legs. And then she ran away at the top of her\nspeed.\n\n\"Run, rigger, run!\" Penrod began inexcusably. But Sam cut the\npersecutions short at this point. Stung to fury, he charged upon the\nsheltering tree in the Schofields' yard.\n\nOrdinarily, at such a juncture, Penrod would have fled, keeping his own\ntemper and increasing the heat of his pursuer's by back-flung jeers. But\nthis was Wednesday, and he was in no mood to run from Sam. He stepped\naway from the tree, awaiting the onset.\n\n\"Well, what you goin' to do so much?\" he said.\n\nSam did not pause to proffer the desired information. \"'Tcha got'ny\nSENSE!\" was the total extent of his vocal preliminaries before flinging\nhimself headlong upon the taunter; and the two boys went to the ground\ntogether. Embracing, they rolled, they pommelled, they hammered, they\nkicked. Alas, this was a fight.\n\nThey rose, flailing a while, then renewed their embrace, and, grunting,\nbestowed themselves anew upon our ever too receptive Mother Earth. Once\nmore upon their feet, they beset each other sorely, dealing many\ngreat blows, ofttimes upon the air, but with sufficient frequency upon\nresentful flesh. Tears were jolted to the rims of eyes, but technically\nthey did not weep. \"Got'ny sense,\" was repeated chokingly many, many\ntimes; also, \"Dern ole fool!\" and, \"I'll SHOW you!\"\n\nThe peacemaker who appeared upon the animated scene was Penrod's\ngreat-uncle Slocum. This elderly relative had come to call upon Mrs.\nSchofield, and he was well upon his way to the front door when the\nmutterings of war among some shrubberies near the fence caused him to\ndeflect his course in benevolent agitation.\n\n\"Boys! Boys! Shame, boys!\" he said; but, as the originality of these\nexpressions did not prove striking enough to attract any great\nattention from the combatants, he felt obliged to assume a share in\nthe proceedings. It was a share entailing greater activity than he had\nanticipated, and, before he managed to separate the former friends,\nhe intercepted bodily an amount of violence to which he was wholly\nunaccustomed. Additionally, his attire was disarranged; his hat was no\nlonger upon his head, and his temper was in a bad way. In fact, as his\nhat flew off, he made use of words that under less extreme circumstances\nwould have caused both boys to feel a much profounder interest than they\ndid in great-uncle Slocum.\n\n\"I'll GET you!\" Sam babbled. \"Don't you ever dare to speak to me again,\nPenrod Schofield, long as you live, or I'll whip you worse'n I have this\ntime!\"\n\nPenrod squawked. For the moment he was incapable of coherent speech,\nand then, failing in a convulsive attempt to reach his enemy, his fury\nculminated upon an innocent object that had never done him the slightest\nharm. Great-uncle Slocum's hat lay upon the ground close by, and Penrod\nwas in the state of irritation that seeks an outlet too blindly--as\npeople say, he \"HAD to do SOMETHING!\" He kicked great-uncle Slocum's hat\nwith such sweep and precision that it rose swiftly, and, breasting the\nautumn breeze, passed over the fence and out into the street.\n\nGreat-uncle Slocum uttered a scream of anguish, and, immediately ceasing\nto peacemake, ran forth to a more important rescue; but the conflict was\nnot renewed. Sanity had returned to Sam Williams; he was awed by this\ncolossal deed of Penrod's and filled with horror at the thaught that he\nmight be held as accessory to it. Fleetly he fled, pursued as far as\nthe gate by the whole body of Penrod, and thereafter by Penrod's voice\nalone.\n\n\"You BETTER run! You wait till I catch you! You'll see what you get next\ntime! Don't you ever speak to me again as long as you--\"\n\nHere he paused abruptly, for great-uncle Slocum had recovered his hat\nand was returning toward the gate. After one glance at great-uncle\nSlocum, Penrod did not linger to attempt any explanation--there are\ntimes when even a boy can see that apologies would seem out of place.\nPenrod ran round the house to the backyard.\n\nHere he was enthusiastically greeted by Duke. \"You get away from\nme!\" Penrod said hoarsely, and with terrible gestures he repulsed the\nfaithful animal, who retired philosophically to the stable, while his\nmaster let himself out of the back gate. Penrod had decided to absent\nhimself from home for the time being.\n\nThe sky was gray, and there were hints of coming dusk in the air; it\nwas an hour suited to his turbulent soul, and he walked with a sombre\nswagger. \"Ran like a c'ardy-calf!\" he sniffed, half aloud, alluding to\nthe haste of Sam Williams in departure. \"All he is, ole c'ardy-calf!\"\n\nThen, as he proceeded up the alley, a hated cry smote his ears: \"Hi,\nPenrod! How's your tree-mores?\" And two jovial schoolboy faces appeared\nabove a high board fence. \"How's your beautiful hair, Penrod?\" they\nvociferated. \"When you goin' to git your parents' consent? What makes\nyou think you're only pretty, ole blue stars?\"\n\nPenrod looked about feverishly for a missile, and could find none to\nhis hand, but the surface of the alley sufficed; he made mud balls and\nfiercely bombarded the vociferous fence. Naturally, hostile mud balls\npresently issued from behind this barricade; and thus a campaign\ndeveloped that offered a picture not unlike a cartoonist's sketch of\na political campaign, wherein this same material is used for the\ndecoration of opponents. But Penrod had been unwise; he was outnumbered,\nand the hostile forces held the advantageous side of the fence.\n\nMud balls can be hard as well as soggy; some of those that reached\nPenrod were of no inconsiderable weight and substance, and they made him\ngrunt despite himself. Finally, one, at close range, struck him in\nthe pit of the stomach, whereupon he clasped himself about the middle\nsilently, and executed some steps in seeming imitation of a quaint\nIndian dance.\n\nHis plight being observed through a knothole, his enemies climbed upon\nthe fence and regarded him seriously.\n\n\"Aw, YOU'RE all right, ain't you, old tree-mores?\" inquired one.\n\n\"I'll SHOW you!\" bellowed Penrod, recovering his breath; and he hurled\na fat ball--thoughtfully retained in hand throughout his agony--to such\neffect that his interrogator disappeared backward from the fence without\nhaving taken any initiative of his own in the matter. His comrade\nimpulsively joined him upon the ground, and the battle continued.\n\nThrough the gathering dusk it went on. It waged but the hotter as\ndarkness made aim more difficult--and still Penrod would not be driven\nfrom the field. Panting, grunting, hoarse from returning insults,\nfighting on and on, an indistinguishable figure in the gloom, he held\nthe back alley against all comers.\n\nFor such a combat darkness has one great advantage; but it has an\nequally important disadvantage--the combatant cannot see to aim; on\nthe other hand, he cannot see to dodge. And all the while Penrod\nwas receiving two for one. He became heavy with mud. Plastered,\nimpressionistic and sculpturesque, there was about him a quality of the\ntragic, of the magnificent. He resembled a sombre masterpiece by Rodin.\nNo one could have been quite sure what he was meant for.\n\nDinner bells tinkled in houses. Then they were rung from kitchen doors.\nCalling voices came urging from the distance, calling boys' names into\nthe darkness. They called and a note of irritation seemed to mar their\nbeauty.\n\nThen bells were rung again--and the voices renewed appeals more urgent,\nmuch more irritated. They called and called and called.\n\nTHUD! went the mud balls.\n\nThud! Thud! Blunk!\n\n\"OOF!\" said Penrod.\n\n... Sam Williams, having dined with his family at their usual hour,\nseven, slipped unostentatiously out of the kitchen door, as soon as he\ncould, after the conclusion of the meal, and quietly betook himself to\nthe Schofields' corner.\n\nHere he stationed himself where he could see all avenues of approach\nto the house, and waited. Twenty minutes went by, and then Sam became\nsuddenly alert and attentive, for the arc-light revealed a small,\ngrotesque figure slowly approaching along the sidewalk. It was brown in\ncolour, shaggy and indefinite in form; it limped excessively, and paused\nto rub itself, and to meditate.\n\nPeculiar as the thing was, Sam had no doubt as to its identity. He\nadvanced.\n\n\"'Lo, Penrod,\" he said cautiously, and with a shade of formality.\n\nPenrod leaned against the fence, and, lifting one leg, tested the\nknee-joint by swinging his foot back and forth, a process evidently\nprovocative of a little pain. Then he rubbed the left side of his\nencrusted face, and, opening his mouth to its whole capacity as\nan aperture, moved his lower jaw slightly from side to side, thus\ntriumphantly settling a question in his own mind as to whether or no a\nsuspected dislocation had taken place.\n\nHaving satisfied himself on these points, he examined both shins\ndelicately by the sense of touch, and carefully tested the capacities of\nhis neck-muscles to move his head in a wonted manner. Then he responded\nsomewhat gruffly: \"'Lo!\" \"Where you been?\" Sam said eagerly, his\nformality vanishing.\n\n\"Havin' a mud-fight.\"\n\n\"I guess you did!\" Sam exclaimed, in a low voice. \"What you goin' to\ntell your--\"\n\n\"Oh, nothin'.\"\n\n\"Your sister telephoned to our house to see if I knew where you were,\"\nsaid Sam. \"She told me if I saw you before you got home to tell you\nsumpthing; but not to say anything about it. She said Miss Spence had\ntelephoned to her, but she said for me to tell you it was all right\nabout that letter, and she wasn't goin' to tell your mother and father\non you, so you needn't say anything about it to 'em.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Penrod indifferently.\n\n\"She says you're goin' to be in enough trouble without that,\" Sam went\non. \"You're goin' to catch fits about your Uncle Slocum's hat, Penrod.\"\n\n\"Well, I guess I know it.\"\n\n\"And about not comin' home to dinner, too. Your mother telephoned twice\nto Mamma while we were eatin' to see if you'd come in our house. And\nwhen they SEE you--MY, but you're goin' to get the DICKENS, Penrod!\"\n\nPenrod seemed unimpressed, though he was well aware that Sam's prophecy\nwas no unreasonable one.\n\n\"Well, I guess I know it,\" he repeated casually. And he moved slowly\ntoward his own gate.\n\nHis friend looked after him curiously--then, as the limping figure\nfumbled clumsily with bruised fingers at the latch of the gate, there\nsounded a little solicitude in Sam's voice.\n\n\"Say, Penrod, how--how do you feel?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Do you feel pretty bad?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Penrod, and, in spite of what awaited him beyond the lighted\nportals just ahead, he spoke the truth. His nerves were rested, and his\nsoul was at peace. His Wednesday madness was over.\n\n\"No,\" said Penrod; \"I feel bully!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. PENROD'S BUSY DAY\n\nAlthough the pressure had thus been relieved and Penrod found peace with\nhimself, nevertheless there were times during the rest of that week\nwhen he felt a strong distaste for Margaret. His schoolmates frequently\nreminded him of such phrases in her letter as they seemed least able to\nforget, and for hours after each of these experiences he was unable to\ncomport himself with human courtesy when constrained (as at dinner) to\nremain for any length of time in the same room with her. But by Sunday\nthese moods had seemed to pass; he attended church in her close\ncompany, and had no thought of the troubles brought upon him by her\ncorrespondence with a person who throughout remained unknown to him.\n\nPenrod slumped far down in the pew with his knees against the back of\nthat in front, and he also languished to one side, so that the people\nsitting behind were afforded a view of him consisting of a little hair\nand one bored ear. The sermon--a noble one, searching and eloquent--was\nbut a persistent sound in that ear, though, now and then, Penrod's\nattention would be caught by some detached portion of a sentence, when\nhis mind would dwell dully upon the phrases for a little while and lapse\ninto a torpor. At intervals his mother, without turning her head, would\nwhisper, \"Sit up, Penrod,\" causing him to sigh profoundly and move his\nshoulders about an inch, this mere gesture of compliance exhausting all\nthe energy that remained to him.\n\nThe black backs and gray heads of the elderly men in the congregation\noppressed him; they made him lethargic with a sense of long lives of\nrepellent dullness. But he should have been grateful to the lady with\nthe artificial cherries upon her hat. His gaze lingered there, wandered\naway, and hopelessly returned again and again, to be a little refreshed\nby the glossy scarlet of the cluster of tiny globes. He was not so\nfortunate as to be drowsy; that would have brought him some relief--and\nyet, after a while, his eyes became slightly glazed; he saw dimly, and\nwhat he saw was distorted.\n\nThe church had been built in the early 'Seventies, and it contained\nsome naive stained glass of that period. The arch at the top of a window\nfacing Penrod was filled with a gigantic Eye. Of oyster-white and raw\nblues and reds, inflamed by the pouring sun, it had held an awful place\nin the infantile life of Penrod Schofield, for in his tenderer years he\naccepted it without question as the literal Eye of Deity. He had been\ninformed that the church was the divine dwelling--and there was the Eye!\n\nNowadays, being no longer a little child, he had somehow come to know\nbetter without being told, and, though the great flaming Eye was no\nlonger the terrifying thing it had been to him during his childhood, it\nnevertheless retained something of its ominous character. It made him\nfeel spied upon, and its awful glare still pursued him, sometimes, as\nhe was falling asleep at night. When he faced the window his feeling was\none of dull resentment.\n\nHis own glazed eyes, becoming slightly crossed with an ennui that was\npeculiarly intense this morning, rendered the Eye more monstrous than it\nwas. It expanded to horrible size, growing mountainous; it turned into\na volcano in the tropics, and yet it stared at him, indubitably an Eye\nimplacably hostile to all rights of privacy forever. Penrod blinked and\nclinched his eyelids to be rid of this dual image, and he managed to\nshake off the volcano. Then, lowering the angle of his glance, he saw\nsomething most remarkable--and curiously out of place.\n\nAn inverted white soup-plate was lying miraculously balanced upon the\nback of a pew a little distance in front of him, and upon the upturned\nbottom of the soup-plate was a brown cocoanut. Mildly surprised,\nPenrod yawned, and, in the effort to straighten his eyes, came to life\ntemporarily. The cocoanut was revealed as Georgie Bassett's head,\nand the soup-plate as Georgie's white collar. Georgie was sitting up\nstraight, as he always did in church, and Penrod found this vertical\nrectitude unpleasant. He knew that he had more to fear from the Eye\nthan Georgie had, and he was under the impression (a correct one) that\nGeorgie felt on intimate terms with it and was actually fond of it.\n\nPenrod himself would have maintained that he was fond of it, if he had\nbeen asked. He would have said so because he feared to say otherwise;\nand the truth is that he never consciously looked at the Eye\ndisrespectfully. He would have been alarmed if he thought the Eye had\nany way of finding out how he really felt about it. When not off his\nguard, he always looked at it placatively.\n\nBy and by, he sagged so far to the left that he had symptoms of a\n\"stitch in the side\", and, rousing himself, sat partially straight for\nseveral moments. Then he rubbed his shoulders slowly from side to side\nagainst the back of the seat, until his mother whispered, \"Don't do\nthat, Penrod.\"\n\nUpon this, he allowed himself to slump inwardly till the curve in the\nback of his neck rested against the curved top of the back of the seat.\nIt was a congenial fit, and Penrod again began to move slowly from side\nto side, finding the friction soothing. Even so slight a pleasure was\ndenied him by a husky, \"Stop that!\" from his father.\n\nPenrod sighed, and slid farther down. He scratched his head, his left\nknee, his right biceps and his left ankle, after which he scratched\nhis right knee, his right ankle and his left biceps. Then he said, \"Oh,\nhum!\" unconsciously, but so loudly that there was a reproving stir in\nthe neighbourhood of the Schofield pew, and his father looked at him\nangrily.\n\nFinally, his nose began to trouble him. It itched, and after scratching\nit, he rubbed it harshly. Another \"Stop that!\" from his father proved of\nno avail, being greeted by a desperate-sounding whisper, \"I GOT to!\"\n\nAnd, continuing to rub his nose with his right hand, Penrod began to\nsearch his pockets with his left. The quest proving fruitless, he\nrubbed his nose with his left hand and searched with his right. Then\nhe abandoned his nose and searched feverishly with both hands, going\nthrough all of his pockets several times.\n\n\"What DO you want?\" whispered his mother.\n\nBut Margaret had divined his need, and she passed him her own\nhandkerchief. This was both thoughtful and thoughtless--the latter\nbecause Margaret was in the habit of thinking that she became faint in\ncrowds, especially at the theatre or in church, and she had just soaked\nher handkerchief with spirits of ammonia from a small phial she carried\nin her muff.\n\nPenrod hastily applied the handkerchief to his nose and even more\nhastily exploded. He sneezed stupendously; he choked, sneezed\nagain, wept, passed into a light convulsion of coughing and sneezing\ntogether--a mergence of sound that attracted much attention--and, after\na few recurrent spasms, convalesced into a condition marked by silent\ntears and only sporadic instances of sneezing.\n\nBy this time his family were unanimously scarlet--his father and mother\nwith mortification, and Margaret with the effort to control the almost\nirresistible mirth that the struggles and vociferations of Penrod had\ninspired within her. And yet her heart misgave her, for his bloodshot\nand tearful eyes were fixed upon her from the first and remained upon\nher, even when half-blinded with his agony; and their expression--as\nterrible as that of the windowed Eye confronting her--was not for an\ninstant to be misunderstood. Absolutely, he believed that she had handed\nhim the ammonia-soaked handkerchief deliberately and with malice, and\nwell she knew that no power on earth could now or at any time henceforth\npersuade him otherwise.\n\n\"Of course I didn't mean it, Penrod,\" she said, at the first opportunity\nupon their homeward way. \"I didn't notice--that is, I didn't think--\"\nUnfortunately for the effect of sincerity she hoped to produce, her\nvoice became tremulous and her shoulders moved suspiciously.\n\n\"Just you wait! You'll see!\" he prophesied, in a voice now choking, not\nwith ammonia, but with emotion. \"Poison a person, and then laugh in his\nface!\"\n\nHe spake no more until they had reached their own house, though she made\nsome further futile efforts at explanation and apology.\n\nAnd after brooding abysmally throughout the meal that followed, he\ndisappeared from the sight of his family, having answered with one\nfrightful look his mother's timid suggestion that it was almost time\nfor Sunday-school. He retired to his eyry--the sawdust box in the empty\nstable--and there gave rein to his embittered imaginings, incidentally\nforming many plans for Margaret.\n\nMost of these were much too elaborate; but one was so alluring that he\ndwelt upon it, working out the details with gloomy pleasure, even after\nhe had perceived its defects. It involved some postponement--in fact,\nuntil Margaret should have become the mother of a boy about Penrod's\npresent age. This boy would be precisely like Georgie Bassett--Penrod\nconceived that as inevitable--and, like Georgie, he would be his\nmother's idol. Penrod meant to take him to church and force him to blow\nhis nose with an ammonia-soaked handkerchief in the presence of the Eye\nand all the congregation.\n\nThen Penrod intended to say to this boy, after church, \"Well, that's\nexackly what your mother did to me, and if you don't like it, you better\nlook out!\"\n\nAnd the real Penrod in the sawdust box clenched his fists. \"Come ahead,\nthen!\" he muttered. \"You talk too much!\" Whereupon, the Penrod of his\ndream gave Margaret's puny son a contemptuous thrashing under the eyes\nof his mother, who besought in vain for mercy. This plan was finally\ndropped, not because of any lingering nepotism within Penrod, but\nbecause his injury called for action less belated.\n\nOne after another, he thought of impossible things; one after another,\nhe thought of things merely inane and futile, for he was trying to\ndo something beyond his power. Penrod was never brilliant, or even\nsuccessful, save by inspiration.\n\nAt four o'clock he came into the house, still nebulous, and as he passed\nthe open door of the library he heard a man's voice, not his father's.\n\n\"To me,\" said this voice, \"the finest lines in all literature are those\nin Tennyson's 'Maud'--\n\n\"'Had it lain for a century dead, My dust would hear her and beat, And\nblossom in purple and red, There somewhere around near her feet.'\n\n\"I think I have quoted correctly,\" continued the voice nervously, \"but,\nat any rate, what I wished to--ah--say was that I often think of those\nah--words; but I never think of them without thinking of--of--of YOU.\nI--ah--\"\n\nThe nervous voice paused, and Penrod took an oblique survey of the room,\nhimself unobserved. Margaret was seated in an easy chair and her face\nwas turned away from Penrod, so that her expression of the moment\nremained unknown to him. Facing her, and leaning toward her with\nperceptible emotion, was Mr. Claude Blakely--a young man with whom\nPenrod had no acquaintance, though he had seen him, was aware of his\nidentity, and had heard speech between Mrs. Schofield and Margaret which\nindicated that Mr. Blakely had formed the habit of calling frequently at\nthe house. This was a brilliantly handsome young man; indeed, his face\nwas so beautiful that even Penrod was able to perceive something about\nit which might be explicably pleasing--at least to women. And Penrod\nremembered that, on the last evening before Mr. Robert Williams's\ndeparture for college, Margaret had been peevish because Penrod had\ngenially spent the greater portion of the evening with Robert and\nherself upon the porch. Margaret made it clear, later, that she strongly\npreferred to conduct her conversations with friends unassisted--and as\nPenrod listened to the faltering words of Mr. Claude Blakely, he felt\ninstinctively that, in a certain contingency, Margaret's indignation\nwould be even more severe to-day than on the former occasion.\n\nMr. Blakely coughed faintly and was able to continue.\n\n\"I mean to say that when I say that what Tennyson says--ah--seems to--to\napply to--to a feeling about you--\"\n\nAt this point, finding too little breath in himself to proceed, in spite\nof the fact that he had spoken in an almost inaudible tone, Mr. Blakely\nstopped again.\n\nSomething about this little scene was making a deep impression upon\nPenrod. What that impression was, he could not possibly have stated;\nbut he had a sense of the imminence of a tender crisis, and he perceived\nthat the piquancy of affairs in the library had reached a point which\nwould brand an intentional interruption as the act of a cold-blooded\nruffian. Suddenly it was as though a strong light shone upon him: he\ndecided that it was Mr. Blakely who had told Margaret that her eyes\nwere like blue stars in heaven--THIS was the person who had caused the\nhateful letter to be written! That decided Penrod; his inspiration, so\nlong waited for, had come.\n\n\"I--I feel that perhaps I am not plain,\" said Mr. Blakely, and\nimmediately became red, whereas he had been pale. He was at least modest\nenough about his looks to fear that Margaret might think he had referred\nto them. \"I mean, not plain in another sense--that is, I mean not that\n_I_ am not plain in saying what I mean to you--I mean, what you mean to\nME! I feel--\"\n\nThis was the moment selected by Penrod. He walked carelessly into the\nlibrary, inquiring in a loud, bluff voice:\n\n\"Has anybody seen my dog around here anywheres?\"\n\nMr. Blakely had inclined himself so far toward Margaret, and he was\nsitting so near the edge of the chair, that only a really wonderful bit\nof instinctive gymnastics landed him upon his feet instead of upon his\nback. As for Margaret, she said, \"Good gracious!\" and regarded Penrod\nblankly.\n\n\"Well,\" said Penrod breezily, \"I guess it's no use lookin' for him--he\nisn't anywheres around. I guess I'll sit down.\" Herewith, he sank into\nan easy chair, and remarked, as in comfortable explanation, \"I'm kind of\ntired standin' up, anyway.\"\n\nEven in this crisis, Margaret was a credit to her mother's training.\n\n\"Penrod, have you met Mr. Blakely?\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\nMargaret primly performed the rite.\n\n\"Mr. Blakely, this is my little brother Penrod.\"\n\nMr. Blakely was understood to murmur, \"How d'ye do?\"\n\n\"I'm well,\" said Penrod.\n\nMargaret bent a perplexed gaze upon him, and he saw that she had not\ndivined his intentions, though the expression of Mr. Blakely was already\nbeginning to be a little compensation for the ammonia outrage. Then,\nas the protracted silence which followed the introduction began to be a\nsevere strain upon all parties, Penrod felt called upon to relieve it.\n\n\"I didn't have anything much to do this afternoon, anyway,\" he said. And\nat that there leaped a spark in Margaret's eye; her expression became\nsevere.\n\n\"You should have gone to Sunday-school,\" she told him crisply.\n\n\"Well, I didn't!\" said Penrod, with a bitterness so significant of\nsufferings connected with religion, ammonia, and herself, that Margaret,\nafter giving him a thoughtful look, concluded not to urge the point.\n\nMr. Blakely smiled pleasantly. \"I was looking out of the window a minute\nago,\" he said, \"and I saw a dog run across the street and turn the\ncorner.\"\n\n\"What kind of a lookin' dog was it?\" Penrod inquired, with languor.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mr. Blakely, \"it was a--it was a nice-looking dog.\"\n\n\"What colour was he?\"\n\n\"He was--ah--white. That is, I think--\"\n\n\"It wasn't Duke,\" said Penrod. \"Duke's kind of brownish-gray-like.\"\n\nMr. Blakely brightened.\n\n\"Yes, that was it,\" he said. \"This dog I saw first had another dog with\nhim--a brownish-gray dog.\"\n\n\"Little or big?\" Penrod asked, without interest.\n\n\"Why, Duke's a little dog!\" Margaret intervened. \"Of COURSE, if it was\nlittle, it must have been Duke.\"\n\n\"It WAS little,\" said Mr. Blakely too enthusiastically. \"It was a little\nbit of a dog. I noticed it because it was so little.\"\n\n\"Couldn't 'a' been Duke, then,\" said Penrod. \"Duke's a kind of a\nmiddle-sized dog.\" He yawned, and added: \"I don't want him now. I want\nto stay in the house this afternoon, anyway. And it's better for Duke to\nbe out in the fresh air.\"\n\nMr. Blakely coughed again and sat down, finding little to say. It was\nevident, also, that Margaret shared his perplexity; and another silence\nbecame so embarrassing that Penrod broke it.\n\n\"I was out in the sawdust-box,\" he said, \"but it got kind of chilly.\"\nNeither of his auditors felt called upon to offer any comment, and\npresently he added, \"I thought I better come in here where it's warmer.\"\n\n\"It's too warm,\"' said Margaret, at once. \"Mr. Blakely, would you mind\nopening a window?\"\n\n\"By all means!\" the young man responded earnestly, as he rose. \"Maybe\nI'd better open two?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Margaret; \"that would be much better.\"\n\nBut Penrod watched Mr. Blakely open two windows to their widest, and\nbetrayed no anxiety. His remarks upon the relative temperatures of\nthe sawdust-box and the library had been made merely for the sake of\ncreating sound in a silent place. When the windows had been open for\nseveral minutes, Penrod's placidity, though gloomy, denoted anything but\ndiscomfort from the draft, which was powerful, the day being windy.\n\nIt was Mr. Blakely's turn to break a silence, and he did it so\nunexpectedly that Margaret started. He sneezed.\n\n\"Perhaps--\" Margaret began, but paused apprehensively.\n\"Perhaps-per-per--\" Her apprehensions became more and more poignant; her\neyes seemed fixed upon some incredible disaster; she appeared to inflate\nwhile the catastrophe she foresaw became more and more imminent. All at\nonce she collapsed, but the power decorum had over her was attested by\nthe mildness of her sneeze after so threatening a prelude.\n\n\"Perhaps I'd better put one of the windows down,\" Mr. Blakely suggested.\n\n\"Both, I believe,\" said Margaret. \"The room has cooled off, now, I\nthink.\"\n\nMr. Blakely closed the windows, and, returning to a chair near Margaret,\ndid his share in the production of another long period of quiet. Penrod\nallowed this one to pass without any vocal disturbance on his part. It\nmay be, however, that his gaze was disturbing to Mr. Blakely, upon whose\nperson it was glassily fixed with a self-forgetfulness that was almost\nmorbid.\n\n\"Didn't you enjoy the last meeting of the Cotillion Club?\" Margaret said\nfinally.\n\nAnd upon Mr. Blakely's answering absently in the affirmative, she\nsuddenly began to be talkative. He seemed to catch a meaning in her\nfluency, and followed her lead, a conversation ensuing which at first\nhad all the outward signs of eagerness. They talked with warm interest\nof people and events unknown to Penrod; they laughed enthusiastically\nabout things beyond his ken; they appeared to have arranged a perfect\nway to enjoy themselves, no matter whether he was with them or elsewhere\nbut presently their briskness began to slacken; the appearance of\ninterest became perfunctory. Within ten minutes the few last scattering\nsemblances of gayety had passed, and they lapsed into the longest and\nmost profound of all their silences indoors that day. Its effect upon\nPenrod was to make him yawn and settle himself in his chair.\n\nThen Mr. Blakely, coming to the surface out of deep inward communings,\nsnapped his finger against the palm of his hand impulsively.\n\n\"By George!\" he exclaimed, under his breath.\n\n\"What is it?\" Margaret asked. \"Did you remember something?\"\n\n\"No, it's nothing,\" he said. \"Nothing at all. But, by the way, it seems\na pity for you to be missing the fine weather. I wonder if I could\npersuade you to take a little walk?\"\n\nMargaret, somewhat to the surprise of both the gentlemen present, looked\nuncertain.\n\n\"I don't know,\" she said.\n\nMr. Blakely saw that she missed his point.\n\n\"One can talk better in the open, don't you think?\" he urged, with a\nsignificant glance toward Penrod.\n\nMargaret also glanced keenly at Penrod. \"Well, perhaps.\" And then, \"I'll\nget my hat,\" she said.\n\nPenrod was on his feet before she left the room. He stretched himself.\n\n\"I'll get mine, too,\" he said.\n\nBut he carefully went to find it in a direction different from that\ntaken by his sister, and he joined her and her escort not till they were\nat the front door, whither Mr. Blakely--with a last flickering of hope\nhad urged a flight in haste.\n\n\"I been thinkin' of takin' a walk, all afternoon,\" said Penrod\npompously. \"Don't matter to me which way we go.\"\n\nThe exquisite oval of Mr. Claude Blakely's face merged into outlines\nmore rugged than usual; the conformation of his jaw became perceptible,\nand it could be seen that he had conceived an idea which was\ncrystallizing into a determination.\n\n\"I believe it happens that this is our first walk together,\" he said to\nMargaret, as they reached the pavement, \"but, from the kind of tennis\nyou play, I judge that you could go a pretty good gait. Do you like\nwalking fast?\"\n\nShe nodded. \"For exercise.\"\n\n\"Shall we try it then?\"\n\n\"You set the pace,\" said Margaret. \"I think I can keep up.\"\n\nHe took her at her word, and the amazing briskness of their start seemed\na little sinister to Penrod, though he was convinced that he could\ndo anything that Margaret could do, and also that neither she nor her\ncomely friend could sustain such a speed for long. On the contrary, they\nactually increased it with each fleeting block they covered.\n\n\"Here!\" he panted, when they had thus put something more than a\nhalf-mile behind them. \"There isn't anybody has to have a doctor, I\nguess! What's the use our walkin' so fast?\"\n\nIn truth, Penrod was not walking, for his shorter legs permitted no\nactual walking at such a speed; his gait was a half-trot.\n\n\"Oh, WE'RE out for a WALK!\" Mr. Blakely returned, a note of gayety\nbeginning to sound in his voice. \"Marg--ah--Miss Schofield, keep your\nhead up and breathe through your nose. That's it! You'll find I was\nright in suggesting this. It's going to turn out gloriously! Now, let's\nmake it a little faster.\"\n\nMargaret murmured inarticulately, for she would not waste her breath in\na more coherent reply. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were brimming\nwith the wind, but when she looked at Penrod, they were brimming with\nsomething more. Gurgling sounds came from her.\n\nPenrod's expression had become grim. He offered no second protest,\nmainly because he, likewise, would not waste his breath, and if he\nwould, he could not. Of breath in the ordinary sense breath, breathed\nautomatically--he had none. He had only gasps to feed his straining\nlungs, and his half-trot, which had long since become a trot, was\nchanged for a lope when Mr. Blakely reached his own best burst of speed.\n\nAnd now people stared at the flying three. The gait of Margaret and\nMr. Blakely could be called a walk only by courtesy, while Penrod's was\nbecoming a kind of blind scamper. At times he zigzagged; other times,\nhe fell behind, wabbling. Anon, with elbows flopping and his face\nsculptured like an antique mask, he would actually forge ahead, and then\ncarom from one to the other of his companions as he fell back again.\n\nThus the trio sped through the coming of autumn dusk, outflying the\nfallen leaves that tumbled upon the wind. And still Penrod held to the\ntask that he had set himself. The street lamps flickered into life, but\non and on Claude Blakely led the lady, and on and on reeled the\ngrim Penrod. Never once was he so far from them that they could have\nexchanged a word unchaperoned by his throbbing ear.\n\n\"OH!\" Margaret cried, and, halting suddenly, she draped herself about a\nlamp-post like a strip of bunting. \"Guh-uh-guh-GOODNESS!\" she sobbed.\n\nPenrod immediately drooped to the curb-stone, which he reached, by pure\nfortune, in a sitting position. Mr. Blakely leaned against a fence, and\nsaid nothing, though his breathing was eloquent. \"We--we must go--go\nhome,\" Margaret gasped. \"We must, if--if we can drag ourselves!\"\n\nThen Penrod showed them what mettle they he'd tried to crack. A paroxysm\nof coughing shook him; he spoke through it sobbingly:\n\n\"'Drag!' 'S jus' lul-like a girl! Ha-why I walk--OOF!--faster'n that\nevery day--on my--way to school.\" He managed to subjugate a tendency to\nnausea. \"What you--want to go--home for?\" he said. \"Le's go on!\"\n\nIn the darkness Mr. Claude Blakely's expression could not be seen,\nnor was his voice heard. For these and other reasons, his opinions and\nsentiments may not be stated.\n\n... Mrs. Schofield was looking rather anxiously forth from her front\ndoor when the two adult figures and the faithful smaller one came up the\nwalk.\n\n\"I was getting uneasy,\" she said. \"Papa and I came in and found the\nhouse empty. It's after seven. Oh, Mr. Blakely, is that you?\"\n\n\"Good-evening,\" he said. \"I fear I must be keeping an engagement.\nGood-night. Good-night, Miss Schofield.\"\n\n\"Good-night.\"\n\n\"Well, good-night,\" Penrod called, staring after him. But Mr. Blakely\nwas already too far away to hear him, and a moment later Penrod followed\nhis mother and sister into the house.\n\n\"I let Della go to church,\" Mrs. Schofield said to Margaret. \"You and I\nmight help Katie get supper.\"\n\n\"Not for a few minutes,\" Margaret returned gravely, looking at Penrod.\n\"Come upstairs, mamma; I want to tell you something.\"\n\nPenrod cackled hoarse triumph and defiance.\n\n\"Go on! Tell! What _'I_ care? You try to poison a person in church\nagain, and then laugh in his face, you'll see what you get!\"\n\nBut after his mother had retired with Margaret to the latter's room, he\nbegan to feel disturbed in spite of his firm belief that his cause\nwas wholly that of justice victorious. Margaret had insidious ways of\nstating a case; and her point of view, no matter how absurd or unjust,\nwas almost always adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Schofield in cases of\ncontroversy.\n\nPenrod became uneasy. Perceiving himself to be in danger, he decided\nthat certain measures were warranted. Unquestionably, it would be well\nto know beforehand in what terms Margaret would couch the charges\nwhich he supposed he must face in open court--that is to say, at the\nsupper-table. He stole softly up the stairs, and, flattening himself\nagainst the wall, approached Margaret's door, which was about an inch\najar.\n\nHe heard his mother making sounds which appalled him--he took them for\nsobs. And then Margaret's voice rang out in a peal of insane laughter.\nTrembling, he crept nearer the door. Within the room Margaret was\nclinging to her mother, and both were trying to control their hilarity.\n\n\"He did it all to get even!\" Margaret exclaimed, wiping her eyes. \"He\ncame in at just the right time. That GOOSE was beginning to talk his\nsilly, soft talk--the way he does with every girl in town--and he was\nalmost proposing, and I didn't know how to stop him. And then Penrod\ncame in and did it for me. I could have hugged Penrod, mamma, I actually\ncould! And I saw he meant to stay to get even for that ammonia--and, oh,\nI worked so hard to make him think I wanted him to GO! Mamma, mamma, if\nyou could have SEEN that walk! That GOOSE kept thinking he could wear\nPenrod out or drop him behind, but I knew he couldn't so long as Penrod\nbelieved he was worrying us and getting even. And that GOOSE thought I\nWANTED to get rid of Penrod, too; and the conceited thing said it would\nturn out 'gloriously,' meaning we'd be alone together pretty soon--I'd\nlike to shake him! You see, I pretended so well, in order to make Penrod\nstick to us, that GOOSE believed I meant it! And if he hadn't tried to\nwalk Penrod off his legs, he wouldn't have wilted his own collar and\nworn himself out, and I think he'd have hung on until you'd have had to\ninvite him to stay to supper, and he'd have stayed on all evening, and\nI wouldn't have had a chance to write to Robert Williams. Mamma, there\nhave been lots of times when I haven't been thankful for Penrod, but\nto-day I could have got down on my knees to you and papa for giving me\nsuch a brother!\"\n\nIn the darkness of the hall, as a small but crushed and broken form\nstole away from the crack in the door, a gigantic Eye seemed to\nform--seemed to glare down upon Penrod--warning him that the way of\nvengeance is the way of bafflement, and that genius may not prevail\nagainst the trickeries of women.\n\n\"This has been a NICE day!\" Penrod muttered hoarsely.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII. ON ACCOUNT OF THE WEATHER\n\nThere is no boredom (not even an invalid's) comparable to that of a boy\nwho has nothing to do. When a man says he has nothing to do, he speaks\nidly; there is always more than he can do. Grown women never say they\nhave nothing to do, and when girls or little girls say they have nothing\nto do, they are merely airing an affectation. But when a boy has nothing\nto do, he has actually nothing at all to do; his state is pathetic, and\nwhen he complains of it his voice is haunting.\n\nMrs. Schofield was troubled by this uncomfortable quality in the voice\nof her son, who came to her thrice, in his search for entertainment or\neven employment, one Saturday afternoon during the February thaw. Few\nfacts are better established than that the February thaw is the poorest\ntime of year for everybody. But for a boy it is worse than poorest; it\nis bankrupt. The remnant streaks of old soot-speckled snow left against\nthe north walls of houses have no power to inspire; rather, they are\ndreary reminders of sports long since carried to satiety. One cares\nlittle even to eat such snow, and the eating of icicles, also, has come\nto be a flaccid and stale diversion. There is no ice to bear a skate,\nthere is only a vast sufficiency of cold mud, practically useless.\nSunshine flickers shiftily, coming and going without any honest purpose;\nsnow-squalls blow for five minutes, the flakes disappearing as they\ntouch the earth; half an hour later rain sputters, turns to snow and\nthen turns back to rain--and the sun disingenuously beams out again,\nonly to be shut off like a rogue's lantern. And all the wretched while,\nif a boy sets foot out of doors, he must be harassed about his overcoat\nand rubbers; he is warned against tracking up the plastic lawn and\nsharply advised to stay inside the house. Saturday might as well be\nSunday.\n\nThus the season. Penrod had sought all possible means to pass the time.\nA full half-hour of vehement yodelling in the Williams' yard had failed\nto bring forth comrade Sam; and at last a coloured woman had opened a\nwindow to inform Penrod that her intellect was being unseated by his\nvocalizations, which surpassed in unpleasantness, she claimed, every\nsound in her previous experience and, for the sake of definiteness, she\nstated her age to be fifty-three years and four months. She added that\nall members of the Williams family had gone out of town to attend the\nfuneral of a relative, but she wished that they might have remained\nto attend Penrod's, which she confidently predicted as imminent if the\nneighbourhood followed its natural impulse.\n\nPenrod listened for a time, but departed before the conclusion of the\noration. He sought other comrades, with no success; he even went to the\nlength of yodelling in the yard of that best of boys, Georgie Bassett.\nHere was failure again, for Georgie signalled to him, through a closed\nwindow, that a closeting with dramatic literature was preferable to the\nsociety of a playmate; and the book that Georgie exhibited was openly\nlabelled, \"300 Choice Declamations.\" Georgie also managed to convey\nanother reason for his refusal of Penrod's companionship, the visitor\nbeing conversant with lip-reading through his studies at the \"movies.\"\n\n\"TOO MUDDY!\"\n\nPenrod went home.\n\n\"Well,\" Mrs. Schofield said, having almost exhausted a mother's powers\nof suggestion, \"well, why don't you give Duke a bath?\" She was that far\ndepleted when Penrod came to her the third time.\n\nMothers' suggestions are wonderful for little children but sometimes\nlack lustre when a boy approaches twelve an age to which the ideas of a\nSwede farm-hand would usually prove more congenial. However, the dim and\nmelancholy eye of Penrod showed a pale gleam, and he departed. He gave\nDuke a bath.\n\nThe entertainment proved damp and discouraging for both parties. Duke\nbegan to tremble even before he was lifted into the water, and after his\nfirst immersion he was revealed to be a dog weighing about one-fourth\nof what an observer of Duke, when Duke was dry, must have guessed his\nweight to be. His wetness and the disclosure of his extreme fleshly\ninsignificance appeared to mortify him profoundly. He wept. But,\npresently, under Penrod's thorough ministrations--for the young master\nwas inclined to make this bath last as long as possible--Duke plucked\nup a heart and began a series of passionate attempts to close the\ninterview. As this was his first bath since September, the effects were\nlavish and impressionistic, both upon Penrod and upon the bathroom.\nHowever, the imperious boy's loud remonstrances contributed to bring\nabout the result desired by Duke.\n\nMrs. Schofield came running, and eloquently put an end to Duke's winter\nbath. When she had suggested this cleansing as a pleasant means of\npassing the time, she assumed that it would take place in a washtub in\nthe cellar; and Penrod's location of the performance in her own bathroom\nwas far from her intention.\n\nPenrod found her language oppressive, and, having been denied the right\nto rub Duke dry with a bath-towel--or even with the cover of a table in\nthe next room--the dismal boy, accompanied by his dismal dog, set forth,\nby way of the kitchen door, into the dismal weather. With no purpose\nin mind, they mechanically went out to the alley, where Penrod leaned\nmorosely against the fence, and Duke stood shivering close by, his\nfigure still emaciated and his tail absolutely withdrawn from view.\n\nThere was a cold, wet wind, however; and before long Duke found his\ncondition unendurable. He was past middle age and cared little for\nexercise; but he saw that something must be done. Therefore, he made\na vigorous attempt to dry himself in a dog's way. Throwing himself,\nshoulders first, upon the alley mud, he slid upon it, back downward;\nhe rolled and rolled and rolled. He began to feel lively and rolled\nthe more; in every way he convinced Penrod that dogs have no regard\nfor appearances. Also, having discovered an ex-fish near the Herman and\nVerman cottage, Duke confirmed an impression of Penrod's that dogs have\na peculiar fancy in the matter of odours that they like to wear.\n\nGrowing livelier and livelier, Duke now wished to play with his\nmaster. Penrod was anything but fastidious; nevertheless, under the\ncircumstances, he withdrew to the kitchen, leaving Duke to play by\nhimself, outside.\n\nDella, the cook, was comfortably making rolls and entertaining a caller\nwith a cup of tea. Penrod lingered a few moments, but found even his\nattention to the conversation ill received, while his attempts to\ntake part in it met outright rebuff. His feelings were hurt; he passed\nbroodingly to the front part of the house, and flung himself wearily\ninto an armchair in the library. With glazed eyes he stared at shelves\nof books that meant to him just what the wallpaper meant, and he\nsighed from the abyss. His legs tossed and his arms flopped; he got up,\nscratched himself exhaustively, and shuffled to a window. Ten desolate\nminutes he stood there, gazing out sluggishly upon a soggy world. During\nthis time two wet delivery-wagons and four elderly women under umbrellas\nwere all that crossed his field of vision. Somewhere in the world, he\nthought, there was probably a boy who lived across the street from\na jail or a fire-engine house, and had windows worth looking out of.\nPenrod rubbed his nose up and down the pane slowly, continuously, and\nwithout the slightest pleasure; and he again scratched himself wherever\nit was possible to do so, though he did not even itch. There was nothing\nin his life.\n\nSuch boredom as he was suffering can become agony, and an imaginative\ncreature may do wild things to escape it; many a grown person has taken\nto drink on account of less pressure than was upon Penrod during that\nintolerable Saturday.\n\nA faint sound in his ear informed him that Della, in the kitchen, had\nuttered a loud exclamation, and he decided to go back there. However,\nsince his former visit had resulted in a rebuff that still rankled, he\npaused outside the kitchen door, which was slightly ajar, and listened.\nHe did this idly, and with no hope of hearing anything interesting or\nhelpful.\n\n\"Snakes!\" Della exclaimed. \"Didja say the poor man was seein' snakes,\nMrs. Cullen?\"\n\n\"No, Della,\" Mrs. Cullen returned dolorously; \"jist one. Flora says he\nniver see more th'n one--jist one big, long, ugly-faced horrible black\none; the same one comin' back an' makin' a fizzin' n'ise at um iv'ry\ntime he had the fit on um. 'Twas alw'ys the same snake; an' he'd holler\nat Flora. 'Here it comes ag'in, oh, me soul!' he'd holler. 'The big,\nblack, ugly-faced thing; it's as long as the front fence!' he'd holler,\n'an' it's makin' a fizzin' n'ise at me, an' breathin' in me face!' he'd\nholler. 'Fer th' love o' hivin', Flora,' he'd holler, 'it's got a little\nblack man wit' a gassly white forehead a-pokin' of it along wit' a\nbroom-handle, an' a-sickin' it on me, the same as a boy sicks a dog on\na poor cat. Fer the love o' hivin', Flora,' he'd holler, 'cantcha fright\nit away from me before I go out o' me head?'\"\n\n\"Poor Tom!\" said Della with deep compassion. \"An' the poor man out of\nhis head all the time, an' not knowin' it! 'Twas awful fer Flora to sit\nthere an' hear such things in the night like that!\"\n\n\"You may believe yerself whin ye say it!\" Mrs. Cullen agreed. \"Right the\nvery night the poor soul died, he was hollerin' how the big black snake\nand the little black man wit' the gassly white forehead a-pokin' it wit'\na broomstick had come fer um. 'Fright 'em away, Flora!' he was croakin',\nin a v'ice that hoarse an' husky 'twas hard to make out what he says.\n'Fright 'em away, Flora!' he says. ''Tis the big, black, ugly-faced\nsnake, as black as a black stockin' an' thicker round than me leg at\nthe thigh before I was wasted away!' he says, poor man. 'It's makin' the\nfizzin' n'ise awful to-night,' he says. 'An' the little black man wit'\nthe gassly white forehead is a-laughin',' he says. 'He's a-laughin'\nan' a-pokin' the big, black, fizzin', ugly-faced snake wit' his\nbroomstick--\"\n\nDella was unable to endure the description.\n\n\"Don't tell me no more, Mrs. Cullen!\" she protested. \"Poor Tom! I\nthought Flora was wrong last week whin she hid the whisky. 'Twas takin'\nit away from him that killed him--an' him already so sick!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Cullen, \"he hardly had the strengt' to drink much,\nshe tells me, after he see the big snake an' the little black divil the\nfirst time. Poor woman, she says he talked so plain she sees 'em both\nherself, iv'ry time she looks at the poor body where it's laid out. She\nsays--\"\n\n\"Don't tell me!\" cried the impressionable Della. \"Don't tell me, Mrs.\nCullen! I can most see 'em meself, right here in me own kitchen! Poor\nTom! To think whin I bought me new hat, only last week, the first time\nI'd be wearin' it'd be to his funeral. To-morrow afternoon, it is?\"\n\n\"At two o'clock,\" said Mrs. Cullen. \"Ye'll be comin' to th' house\nto-night, o' course, Della?\"\n\n\"I will,\" said Della. \"After what I've been hearin' from ye, I'm 'most\nafraid to come, but I'll do it. Poor Tom! I remember the day him an'\nFlora was married--\"\n\nBut the eavesdropper heard no more; he was on his way up the back\nstairs. Life and light--and purpose had come to his face once more.\n\nMargaret was out for the afternoon. Unostentatiously, he went to her\nroom, and for the next few minutes occupied himself busily therein. He\nwas so quiet that his mother, sewing in her own room, would not have\nheard him except for the obstinacy of one of the drawers in Margaret's\nbureau. Mrs. Schofield went to the door of her daughter's room.\n\n\"What are you doing, Penrod?\"\n\n\"Nothin'.\"\n\n\"You're not disturbing any of Margaret's things, are you?\"\n\n\"No, ma'am,\" said the meek lad.\n\n\"What did you jerk that drawer open for?\"\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"You heard me, Penrod.\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am. I was just lookin' for sumpthing.\"\n\n\"For what?\" Mrs. Schofield asked. \"You know that nothing of yours would\nbe in Margaret's room, Penrod, don't you?\"\n\n\"Ma'am?\"\n\n\"What was it you wanted?\" she asked, rather impatiently.\n\n\"I was just lookin' for some pins.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" she said, and handed him two from the shoulder of her\nblouse.\n\n\"I ought to have more,\" he said. \"I want about forty.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"I just want to MAKE sumpthing, Mamma,\" he said plaintively. \"My\ngoodness! Can't I even want to have a few pins without everybody makin'\nsuch a fuss about it you'd think I was doin' a srime!\"\n\n\"Doing a what, Penrod?\"\n\n\"A SRIME!\" he repeated, with emphasis; and a moment's reflection\nenlightened his mother.\n\n\"Oh, a crime!\" she exclaimed. \"You MUST quit reading the murder trials\nin the newspapers, Penrod. And when you read words you don't know how to\npronounce you ought to ask either your papa or me.\"\n\n\"Well, I am askin' you about sumpthing now,\" Penrod said. \"Can't I\neven have a few PINS without stoppin' to talk about everything in the\nnewspapers, Mamma?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, laughing at his seriousness; and she took him to her\nroom, and bestowed upon him five or six rows torn from a paper of pins.\n\"That ought to be plenty,\" she said, \"for whatever you want to make.\"\n\nAnd she smiled after his retreating figure, not noting that he looked\nsoftly bulky around the body, and held his elbows unnaturally tight to\nhis sides. She was assured of the innocence of anything to be made with\npins, and forbore to press investigation. For Penrod to be playing with\npins seemed almost girlish. Unhappy woman, it pleased her to have her\nson seem girlish!\n\nPenrod went out to the stable, tossed his pins into the wheelbarrow,\nthen took from his pocket and unfolded six pairs of long black\nstockings, indubitably the property of his sister. (Evidently Mrs.\nSchofield had been a little late in making her appearance at the door of\nMargaret's room.)\n\nPenrod worked systematically; he hung the twelve stockings over the\nsides of the wheelbarrow, and placed the wheelbarrow beside a large\npacking-box that was half full of excelsior. One after another, he\nstuffed the stockings with excelsior, till they looked like twelve long\nblack sausages. Then he pinned the top of one stocking securely over the\nstuffed foot of another, pinning the top of a third to the foot of the\nsecond, the top of a fourth to the foot of the third--and continued\noperations in this fashion until the twelve stockings were the semblance\nof one long and sinuous black body, sufficiently suggestive to any\nnormal eye.\n\nHe tied a string to one end of this unpleasant-looking thing, led it\naround the stable, and, by vigorous manipulations, succeeded in making\nit wriggle realistically; but he was not satisfied, and, dropping\nthe string listlessly, sat down in the wheelbarrow to ponder. Penrod\nsometimes proved that there were within him the makings of an artist;\nhe had become fascinated by an idea, and could not be content until\nthat idea was beautifully realized. He had meant to create a big, long,\nugly-faced horrible black snake with which to interest Della and her\nfriend, Mrs. Cullen; but he felt that results, so far, were too crude\nfor exploitation. Merely to lead the pinned stockings by a string was\nlittle to fulfill his ambitious vision.\n\nFinally, he rose from the wheelbarrow.\n\n\"If I only had a cat!\" he said dreamily.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX. CREATIVE ART\n\nHe went forth, seeking.\n\nThe Schofield household was catless this winter but there was a nice\nwhite cat at the Williams'. Penrod strolled thoughtfully over to the\nWilliams's yard.\n\nHe was entirely successful, not even having been seen by the sensitive\ncoloured woman, aged fifty-three years and four months.\n\nBut still Penrod was thoughtful. The artist within him was unsatisfied\nwith his materials: and upon his return to the stable he placed the\ncat beneath an overturned box, and once more sat down in the inspiring\nwheelbarrow, pondering. His expression, concentrated and yet a little\nanxious, was like that of a painter at work upon a portrait that may or\nmay not turn out to be a masterpiece. The cat did not disturb him by her\npurring, though she was, indeed, already purring. She was one of those\ncozy, youngish cats--plump, even a little full-bodied, perhaps, and\nrather conscious of the figure--that are entirely conventional and\ndomestic by nature, and will set up a ladylike housekeeping anywhere\nwithout making a fuss about it. If there be a fault in these cats,\novercomplacency might be the name for it; they err a shade too sure\nof themselves, and their assumption that the world means to treat them\nrespectfully has just a little taint of the grande dame. Consequently,\nthey are liable to great outbreaks of nervous energy from within,\nengendered by the extreme surprises that life sometimes holds in store\nfor them. They lack the pessimistic imagination.\n\nMrs. Williams's cat was content upon a strange floor and in the\nconfining enclosure of a strange box. She purred for a time, then\ntrustfully fell asleep. 'Twas well she slumbered; she would need all her\npowers presently.\n\nShe slumbered, and dreamed not that she would wake to mingle with events\nthat were to alter her serene disposition radically and cause her to\nbecome hasty-tempered and abnormally suspicious for the rest of her\nlife.\n\nMeanwhile, Penrod appeared to reach a doubtful solution of his problem.\nHis expression was still somewhat clouded as he brought from the\nstoreroom of the stable a small fragment of a broken mirror, two paint\nbrushes and two old cans, one containing black paint and the other\nwhite. He regarded himself earnestly in the mirror; then, with some\nreluctance, he dipped a brush into one of the cans, and slowly painted\nhis nose a midnight black. He was on the point of spreading this\ndecoration to cover the lower part of his face, when he paused, brush\nhalfway between can and chin.\n\nWhat arrested him was a sound from the alley--a sound of drumming upon\ntin. The eyes of Penrod became significant of rushing thoughts; his\nexpression cleared and brightened. He ran to the alley doors and flung\nthem open.\n\n\"Oh, Verman!\" he shouted.\n\nMarching up and down before the cottage across the alley, Verman plainly\nconsidered himself to be an army. Hanging from his shoulders by a string\nwas an old tin wash-basin, whereon he beat cheerily with two dry bones,\nonce the chief support of a chicken. Thus he assuaged his ennui.\n\n\"Verman, come on in here,\" Penrod called. \"I got sumpthing for you to do\nyou'll like awful well.\"\n\nVerman halted, ceased to drum, and stared. His gaze was not fixed\nparticularly upon Penrod's nose, however, and neither now nor later did\nhe make any remark or gesture referring to this casual eccentricity. He\nexpected things like that upon Penrod or Sam Williams. And as for Penrod\nhimself, he had already forgotten that his nose was painted.\n\n\"Come on, Verman!\"\n\nVerman continued to stare, not moving. He had received such invitations\nbefore, and they had not always resulted to his advantage. Within that\nstable things had happened to him the like of which he was anxious to\navoid in the future.\n\n\"Oh, come ahead, Verman!\" Penrod urged, and, divining logic in the\nreluctance confronting him, he added, \"This ain't goin' to be anything\nlike last time, Verman. I got sumpthing just SPLENDUD for you to do!\"\n\nVerman's expression hardened; he shook his head decisively.\n\n\"Mo,\" he said.\n\n\"Oh, COME on, Verman?\" Penrod pleaded. \"It isn't anything goin' to HURT\nyou, is it? I tell you it's sumpthing you'd give a good deal to GET to\ndo, if you knew what it is.\"\n\n\"Mo!\" said Verman firmly. \"I mome maw woo!\"\n\nPenrod offered arguments.\n\n\"Look, Verman!\" he said. \"Listen here a minute, can't you? How d'you\nknow you don't want to until you know what it is? A person CAN'T know\nthey don't want to do a thing even before the other person tells 'em\nwhat they're goin' to get 'em to do, can they? For all you know, this\nthing I'm goin' to get you to do might be sumpthing you wouldn't miss\ndoin' for anything there is! For all you know, Verman, it might be\nsumpthing like this: well, f'rinstance, s'pose I was standin' here,\nand you were over there, sort of like the way you are now, and I says,\n'Hello, Verman!' and then I'd go on and tell you there was sumpthing\nI was goin' to get you to do; and you'd say you wouldn't do it, even\nbefore you heard what it was, why where'd be any sense to THAT? For all\nyou know, I might of been goin' to get you to eat a five-cent bag o'\npeanuts.\"\n\nVerman had listened obdurately until he heard the last few words; but\nas they fell upon his ear, he relaxed, and advanced to the stable doors,\nsmiling and extending his open right hand.\n\n\"Aw wi,\" he said. \"Gi'm here.\"\n\n\"Well,\" Penrod returned, a trifle embarrassed, \"I didn't say it WAS\npeanuts, did I? Honest, Verman, it's sumpthing you'll like better'n a\nfew old peanuts that most of 'em'd prob'ly have worms in 'em, anyway.\nAll I want you to do is--\"\n\nBut Verman was not favourably impressed; his face hardened again.\n\n\"Mo!\" he said, and prepared to depart.\n\n\"Look here, Verman,\" Penrod urged. \"It isn't goin' to hurt you just to\ncome in here and see what I got for you, is it? You can do that much,\ncan't you?\"\n\nSurely such an appeal must have appeared reasonable, even to Verman,\nespecially since its effect was aided by the promising words, \"See what\nI got for you.\" Certainly Verman yielded to it, though perhaps a little\nsuspiciously. He advanced a few cautious steps into the stable.\n\n\"Look!\" Penrod cried, and he ran to the stuffed and linked stockings,\nseized the leading-string, and vigorously illustrated his further\nremarks. \"How's that for a big, long, ugly-faced horr'ble black ole\nsnake, Verman? Look at her follow me all round anywhere I feel like\ngoin'! Look at her wiggle, will you, though? Look how I make her do\nanything I tell her to. Lay down, you ole snake, you--See her lay down\nwhen I tell her to, Verman? Wiggle, you ole snake, you! See her wiggle,\nVerman?\"\n\n\"Hi!\" Undoubtedly Verman felt some pleasure.\n\n\"Now, listen, Verman!\" Penrod continued, hastening to make the most of\nthe opportunity. \"Listen! I fixed up this good ole snake just for you.\nI'm goin' to give her to you.\"\n\n\"HI!\"\n\nOn account of a previous experience not unconnected with cats, and\nlikely to prejudice Verman, Penrod decided to postpone mentioning Mrs.\nWilliams's pet until he should have secured Verman's cooperation in the\nenterprise irretrievably.\n\n\"All you got to do,\" he went on, \"is to chase this good ole snake\naround, and sort o' laugh and keep pokin' it with the handle o' that\nrake yonder. I'm goin' to saw it off just so's you can poke your good\nole snake with it, Verman.\"\n\n\"Aw wi,\" said Verman, and, extending his open hand again, he uttered a\nhopeful request. \"Peamup?\"\n\nHis host perceived that Verman had misunderstood him. \"Peanuts!\" he\nexclaimed. \"My goodness! I didn't say I HAD any peanuts, did I? I only\nsaid s'pose f'rinstance I DID have some. My goodness! You don't expeck\nme to go round here all day workin' like a dog to make a good ole snake\nfor you and then give you a bag o' peanuts to hire you to play with it,\ndo you, Verman? My goodness!\"\n\nVerman's hand fell, with a little disappointment.\n\n\"Aw wi,\" he said, consenting to accept the snake without the bonus.\n\n\"That's the boy! NOW we're all right, Verman; and pretty soon I'm goin'\nto saw that rake-handle off for you, too; so's you can kind o' guide\nyour good ole snake around with it; but first--well, first there's just\none more thing's got to be done. I'll show you--it won't take but a\nminute.\" Then, while Verman watched him wonderingly, he went to the can\nof white paint and dipped a brush therein. \"It won't get on your clo'es\nmuch, or anything, Verman,\" he explained. \"I only just got to--\"\n\nBut as he approached, dripping brush in hand, the wondering look was all\ngone from Verman; determination took its place.\n\n\"Mo!\" he said, turned his back, and started for outdoors.\n\n\"Look here, Verman,\" Penrod cried. \"I haven't done anything to you yet,\nhave I? It isn't goin' to hurt you, is it? You act like a little teeny\nbit o' paint was goin' to kill you. What's the matter of you? I only\njust got to paint the top part of your face; I'm not goin' to TOUCH the\nother part of it--nor your hands or anything. All _I_ want--\"\n\n\"MO!\" said Verman from the doorway.\n\n\"Oh, my goodness!\" moaned Penrod; and in desperation he drew forth from\nhis pocket his entire fortune. \"All right, Verman,\" he said resignedly.\n\"If you won't do it any other way, here's a nickel, and you can go and\nbuy you some peanuts when we get through. But if I give you this money,\nyou got to promise to wait till we ARE through, and you got to promise\nto do anything I tell you to. You goin' to promise?\"\n\nThe eyes of Verman glistened; he returned, gave bond, and, grasping the\ncoin, burst into the rich laughter of a gourmand.\n\nPenrod immediately painted him dead white above the eyes, all round his\nhead and including his hair. It took all the paint in the can.\n\nThen the artist mentioned the presence of Mrs. Williams's cat, explained\nin full his ideas concerning the docile animal, and the long black\nsnake, and Della and her friend, Mrs. Cullen, while Verman listened with\nanxiety, but remained true to his oath.\n\nThey removed the stocking at the end of the long black snake, and cut\nfour holes in the foot and ankle of it. They removed the excelsior,\nplaced Mrs. Williams's cat in the stocking, shook her down into the\nlower section of it; drew her feet through the four holes there, leaving\nher head in the toe of the stocking; then packed the excelsior down on\ntop of her, and once more attached the stocking to the rest of the long,\nblack snake.\n\nHow shameful is the ease of the historian! He sits in his dressing-gown\nto write: \"The enemy attacked in force--\" The tranquil pen, moving in a\ncloud of tobacco smoke, leaves upon the page its little hieroglyphics,\nserenely summing up the monstrous deeds and sufferings of men of action.\nHow cold, how niggardly, to state merely that Penrod and the painted\nVerman succeeded in giving the long, black snake a motive power, or\ntractor, apparently its own but consisting of Mrs. Williams's cat!\n\nShe was drowsy when they lifted her from the box; she was still drowsy\nwhen they introduced part of her into the orifice of the stocking; but\nshe woke to full, vigorous young life when she perceived that their\npurpose was for her to descend into the black depths of that stocking\nhead first.\n\nVerman held the mouth of the stocking stretched, and Penrod manipulated\nthe cat; but she left her hearty mark on both of them before, in a\nmoment of unfortunate inspiration, she humped her back while she was\nupside down, and Penrod took advantage of the concavity to increase it\neven more than she desired. The next instant she was assisted downward\ninto the gloomy interior, with excelsior already beginning to block the\nmeans of egress.\n\nGymnastic moments followed; there were times when both boys hurled\nthemselves full-length upon the floor, seizing the animated stocking\nwith far-extended hands; and even when the snake was a complete thing,\nwith legs growing from its unquestionably ugly face, either Penrod\nor Verman must keep a grasp upon it, for it would not be soothed, and\nrefused, over and over, to calm itself, even when addressed as, \"Poor\npussy!\" and \"Nice 'ittle kitty!\"\n\nFinally, they thought they had their good ole snake \"about quieted\ndown\", as Penrod said, because the animated head had remained in one\nplace for an unusual length of time, though the legs produced a rather\nsinister effect of crouching, and a noise like a distant planing-mill\ncame from the interior--and then Duke appeared in the doorway. He was\nstill feeling lively.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. THE DEPARTING GUEST\n\nBy the time Penrod returned from chasing Duke to the next corner, Verman\nhad the long, black snake down from the rafter where its active head had\ntaken refuge, with the rest of it dangling; and both boys agreed that\nMrs. Williams's cat must certainly be able to \"see SOME, anyway\",\nthrough the meshes of the stocking.\n\n\"Well,\" said Penrod, \"it's gettin' pretty near dark, what with all this\nbother and mess we been havin' around here, and I expeck as soon as I\nget this good ole broom-handle fixed out of the rake for you, Verman,\nit'll be about time to begin what we had to go and take all this trouble\nFOR.\"\n\n\n.... Mr. Schofield had brought an old friend home to dinner with him:\n\"Dear old Joe Gilling,\" he called this friend when introducing him to\nMrs. Schofield. Mr. Gilling, as Mrs. Schofield was already informed by\ntelephone, had just happened to turn up in town that day, and had called\non his classmate at the latter's office. The two had not seen each other\nin eighteen years.\n\nMr. Gilling was a tall man, clad highly in the mode, and brought to a\npolished and powdered finish by barber and manicurist; but his colour\nwas peculiar, being almost unhumanly florid, and, as Mrs. Schofield\nafterward claimed to have noticed, his eyes \"wore a nervous,\napprehensive look\", his hands were tremulous, and his manner was \"queer\nand jerky\"--at least, that is how she defined it.\n\nShe was not surprised to hear him state that he was travelling for his\nhealth and not upon business. He had not been really well for several\nyears, he said.\n\nAt that, Mr. Schofield laughed and slapped him heartily on the back.\n\n\"Oh, mercy!\" Mr. Gilling cried, leaping in his chair. \"What IS the\nmatter?\"\n\n\"Nothing!\" Mr. Schofield laughed. \"I just slapped you the way we used to\nslap each other on the campus. What I was going to say was that you have\nno business being a bachelor. With all your money, and nothing to do but\ntravel and sit around hotels and clubs, no wonder you've grown bilious.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; I'm not bilious,\" Mr. Gilling said uncomfortably. \"I'm not\nbilious at all.\"\n\n\"You ought to get married,\" Mr. Schofield returned. \"You ought--\" He\npaused, for Mr. Gilling had jumped again. \"What's the trouble, Joe?\"\n\n\"Nothing. I thought perhaps--perhaps you were going to slap me on the\nback again.\"\n\n\"Not this time,\" Mr. Schofield said, renewing his laughter. \"Well, is\ndinner about ready?\" he asked, turning to his wife. \"Where are Margaret\nand Penrod?\"\n\n\"Margaret's just come in,\" Mrs. Schofield answered. \"She'll be down in a\nminute, and Penrod's around somewhere.\"\n\n\"Penrod?\" Mr. Gilling repeated curiously, in his nervous, serious way.\n\"What is Penrod?\"\n\nAnd at this, Mrs. Schofield joined in her husband's laughter. Mr.\nSchofield explained.\n\n\"Penrod's our young son,\" he said. \"He's not much for looks, maybe; but\nhe's been pretty good lately, and sometimes we're almost inclined to be\nproud of him. You'll see him in a minute, old Joe!\"\n\nOld Joe saw him even sooner. Instantly, as Mr. Schofield finished his\nlittle prediction, the most shocking uproar ever heard in that house\nburst forth in the kitchen. Distinctly Irish shrieks unlimited came from\nthat quarter--together with the clashing of hurled metal and tin, the\nappealing sound of breaking china, and the hysterical barking of a dog.\n\nThe library door flew open, and Mrs. Cullen appeared as a mingled streak\ncrossing the room from one door to the other. She was followed by a\nboy with a coal-black nose and between his feet, as he entered, there\nappeared a big long, black, horrible snake, with frantic legs springing\nfrom what appeared to be its head; and it further fulfilled Mrs.\nCullen's description by making a fizzin' noise. Accompanying the snake,\nand still faithfully endeavouring to guide it with the detached handle\nof a rake, was a small black demon with a gassly white forehead and\ngasslier white hair. Duke evidently still feeling his bath, was doing\nall in his power to aid the demon in making the snake step lively. A few\nkitchen implements followed this fugitive procession through the library\ndoorway.\n\nThe long, black snake became involved with a leg of the heavy table in\nthe centre of the room. The head developed spasms of agility; there were\nclangings and rippings, then the foremost section of the long, black\nsnake detached itself, bounded into the air, and, after turning a number\nof somersaults, became, severally, a torn stocking, excelsior, and a\nlunatic cat. The ears of this cat were laid back flat upon its head and\nits speed was excessive upon a fairly circular track it laid out for\nitself in the library. Flying round this orbit, it perceived the open\ndoorway; passed through it, thence to the kitchen, and outward and\nonward--Della having left the kitchen door open in her haste as she\nretired to the backyard.\n\nThe black demon with the gassly white forehead and hair, finding himself\nin the presence of grown people who were white all over, turned in his\ntracks and followed Mrs. Williams's cat to the great outdoors. Duke\npreceded Verman. Mrs. Cullen vanished. Of the apparition, only wreckage\nand a rightfully apprehensive Penrod were left.\n\n\n\"But where,\" Mrs. Schofield began, a few minutes later, looking suddenly\nmystified--\"where--where--\"\n\n\"Where what?\" Mr. Schofield asked testily. \"What are you talking about?\"\nHis nerves were jarred, and he was rather hoarse after what he had been\nsaying to Penrod. (That regretful necromancer was now upstairs doing\nunhelpful things to his nose over a washstand.) \"What do you mean by,\n'Where, where, where?'\" Mr. Schofield demanded. \"I don't see any sense\nto it.\"\n\n\"But where is your old classmate?\" she cried. \"Where's Mr. Gilling?\"\n\nShe was the first to notice this striking absence.\n\n\"By George!\" Mr. Schofield exclaimed. \"Where IS old Joe?\"\n\nMargaret intervened. \"You mean that tall, pale man who was calling?\" she\nasked.\n\n\"Pale, no!\" said her father. \"He's as flushed as--\"\n\n\"He was pale when _I_ saw him,\" Margaret said. \"He had his hat and\ncoat, and he was trying to get out of the front door when I came running\ndownstairs. He couldn't work the catch for a minute; but before I got to\nthe foot of the steps he managed to turn it and open the door. He went\nout before I could think what to say to him, he was in such a hurry. I\nguess everything was so confused you didn't notice--but he's certainly\ngone.\"\n\nMrs. Schofield turned to her husband.\n\n\"But I thought he was going to stay to dinner!\" she cried.\n\nMr. Schofield shook his head, admitting himself floored. Later, having\nmentally gone over everything that might shed light on the curious\nbehaviour of old Joe, he said, without preface:\n\n\"He wasn't at all dissipated when we were in college.\"\n\nMrs. Schofield nodded severely. \"Maybe this was just the best thing\ncould have happened to him, after all,\" she said.\n\n\"It may be,\" her husband returned. \"I don't say it isn't. BUT that isn't\ngoing to make any difference in what I'm going to do to Penrod!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI. YEARNINGS\n\nThe next day a new ambition entered into Penrod Schofield; it was\nheralded by a flourish of trumpets and set up a great noise within his\nbeing.\n\nOn his way home from Sunday-school he had paused at a corner to listen\nto a brass band, which was returning from a funeral, playing a medley of\nairs from \"The Merry Widow,\" and as the musicians came down the street,\nwalking so gracefully, the sun picked out the gold braid upon their\nuniforms and splashed fire from their polished instruments. Penrod\nmarked the shapes of the great bass horns, the suave sculpture of their\nbrazen coils, and the grand, sensational flare of their mouths. And he\nsaw plainly that these noble things, to be mastered, needed no more than\nsome breath blown into them during the fingering of a few simple keys.\nThen obediently they gave forth those vast but dulcet sounds which\nstirred his spirit as no other sounds could stir it quite.\n\nThe leader of the band, walking ahead, was a pleasing figure, nothing\nmore. Penrod supposed him to be a mere decoration, and had never\nsympathized with Sam Williams' deep feeling about drum-majors. The\ncornets, the trombones, the smaller horns were rather interesting, of\ncourse; and the drums had charm, especially the bass drum, which must\nbe partially supported by a youth in front; but, immeasurably above all\nthese, what fascinated Penrod was the little man with the monster horn.\nThere Penrod's widening eyes remained transfixed--upon the horn,\nso dazzling, with its broad spaces of brassy highlights, and so\noverwhelming, with its mouth as wide as a tub; that there was something\nalmost threatening about it.\n\nThe little, elderly band-musician walked manfully as he blew his great\nhorn; and in that pompous engine of sound, the boy beheld a spectacle\nof huge forces under human control. To Penrod, the horn meant power, and\nthe musician meant mastery over power, though, of course, Penrod did not\nknow that this was how he really felt about the matter.\n\nGrandiloquent sketches were passing and interchanging before his mind's\neye--Penrod, in noble raiment, marching down the staring street,\nhis shoulders swaying professionally, the roar of the horn he bore\nsubmerging all other sounds; Penrod on horseback, blowing the enormous\nhorn and leading wild hordes to battle, while Marjorie Jones looked on\nfrom the sidewalk; Penrod astounding his mother and father and sister\nby suddenly serenading them in the library. \"Why, Penrod, where DID you\nlearn to play like this?\"\n\nThese were vague and shimmering glories of vision rather than definite\nplans for his life work, yet he did with all his will determine to own\nand play upon some roaring instrument of brass. And, after all, this\nwas no new desire of his; it was only an old one inflamed to take a new\nform. Nor was music the root of it, for the identical desire is often\nuproarious among them that hate music. What stirred in Penrod was new\nneither in him nor in the world, but old--old as old Adam, old as the\nchildishness of man. All children have it, of course: they are all\nanxious to Make a Noise in the World.\n\nWhile the band approached, Penrod marked the time with his feet; then he\nfell into step and accompanied the musicians down the street, keeping as\nnear as possible to the little man with the big horn. There were four or\nfive other boys, strangers, also marching with the band, but these were\nlight spirits, their flushed faces and prancing legs proving that they\nwere merely in a state of emotional reaction to music. Penrod, on the\ncontrary, was grave. He kept his eyes upon the big horn, and, now and\nthen, he gave an imitation of it. His fingers moved upon invisible keys,\nhis cheeks puffed out, and, from far down in his throat, he produced\nstrange sounds: \"Taw, p'taw-p'taw! Taw, p'taw-p'taw! PAW!\"\n\nThe other boys turned back when the musicians ceased to play, but Penrod\nmarched on, still keeping close to what so inspired him. He stayed with\nthe band till the last member of it disappeared up a staircase in an\noffice-building, down at the business end of the street; and even after\nthat he lingered a while, looking at the staircase.\n\nFinally, however, he set his face toward home, whither he marched in a\nprocession, the visible part of which consisted of himself alone. All\nthe way the rhythmic movements of his head kept time with his marching\nfeet and, also, with a slight rise and fall of his fingers at about the\nmedian line of his abdomen. And pedestrians who encountered him in this\npreoccupation were not surprised to hear, as he passed, a few explosive\nlittle vocalizations: \"Taw, p'taw-p'taw! TAW! Taw-aw-HAW!\"\n\nThese were the outward symptoms of no fleeting impulse, but of steadfast\ndesire; therefore they were persistent. The likeness of the great bass\nhorn remained upon the retina of his mind's eye, losing nothing of its\nbrazen enormity with the passing of hours, nor abating, in his mind's\near, one whit of its fascinating blatancy. Penrod might have forgotten\nalmost anything else more readily; for such a horn has this double\ncompulsion: people cannot possibly keep themselves from looking at its\npossessor--and they certainly have GOT to listen to him!\n\nPenrod was preoccupied at dinner and during the evening, now and then\ncausing his father some irritation by croaking, \"Taw, p'taw-p'taw!\"\nwhile the latter was talking. And when bedtime came for the son of the\nhouse, he mounted the stairs in a rhythmic manner, and p'tawed himself\nthrough the upper hall as far as his own chamber.\n\nEven after he had gone to bed, there came a revival of these\nmanifestations. His mother had put out his light for him and had\nreturned to the library downstairs; three-quarters of an hour had\nelapsed since then, and Margaret was in her room, next to his, when a\ncontinuous low croaking (which she was just able to hear) suddenly broke\nout into loud, triumphal blattings:\n\n\"TAW, p'taw-p'taw-aw-HAW! P'taw-WAW-aw! Aw-PAW!\"\n\n\"Penrod,\" Margaret called, \"stop that! I'm trying to write letters. If\nyou don't quit and go to sleep, I'll call papa up, and you'll SEE!\"\n\nThe noise ceased, or, rather, it tapered down to a desultory faint\ncroaking which finally died out; but there can be little doubt that\nPenrod's last waking thoughts were of instrumental music. And in\nthe morning, when he woke to face the gloomy day's scholastic tasks,\nsomething unusual and eager fawned in his face with the return of\nmemory. \"Taw-p'taw!\" he began. \"PAW!\"\n\nAll day, in school and out, his mind was busy with computations--not\nsuch as are prescribed by mathematical pedants, but estimates of how\nmuch old rags and old iron would sell for enough money to buy a horn.\nHappily, the next day, at lunch, he was able to dismiss this problem\nfrom his mind: he learned that his Uncle Joe would be passing through\ntown, on his way from Nevada, the following afternoon, and all the\nSchofield family were to go to the station to see him. Penrod would be\nexcused from school.\n\nAt this news his cheeks became pink, and for a moment he was breathless.\nUncle Joe and Penrod did not meet often, but when they did, Uncle Joe\ninvariably gave Penrod money. Moreover, he always managed to do it\nprivately so that later there was no bothersome supervision. Last time\nhe had given Penrod a silver dollar.\n\nAt thirty-five minutes after two, Wednesday afternoon, Uncle Joe's\ntrain came into the station, and Uncle Joe got out and shouted among his\nrelatives. At eighteen minutes before three he was waving to them from\nthe platform of the last car, having just slipped a two-dollar bill into\nPenrod's breast-pocket. And, at seven minutes after three, Penrod opened\nthe door of the largest \"music store\" in town.\n\nA tall, exquisite, fair man, evidently a musical earl, stood before\nhim, leaning whimsically upon a piano of the highest polish. The sight\nabashed Penrod not a bit--his remarkable financial condition even made\nhim rather peremptory.\n\n\"See here,\" he said brusquely: \"I want to look at that big horn in the\nwindow.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said the earl; \"look at it.\" And leaned more luxuriously\nupon the polished piano.\n\n\"I meant--\" Penrod began, but paused, something daunted, while an\nunnamed fear brought greater mildness into his voice, as he continued,\n\"I meant--I--How much IS that big horn?\"\n\n\"How much?\" the earl repeated.\n\n\"I mean,\" said Penrod, \"how much is it worth?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" the earl returned. \"Its price is eighty-five dollars.\"\n\n\"Eighty-fi--\" Penrod began mechanically, but was forced to pause and\nswallow a little air that obstructed his throat, as the difference\nbetween eighty-five and two became more and more startling. He\nhad entered the store, rich; in the last ten seconds he had become\npoverty-stricken. Eighty-five dollars was the same as eighty-five\nmillions.\n\n\"Shall I put it aside for you,\" asked the salesman-earl, \"while you look\naround the other stores to see if there's anything you like better?\"\n\n\"I guess--I guess not,\" said Penrod, whose face had grown red. He\nswallowed again, scraped the floor with the side of his right shoe,\nscratched the back of his neck, and then, trying to make his manner\ncasual and easy, \"Well I can't stand around here all day,\" he said. \"I\ngot to be gettin' on up the street.\"\n\n\"Business, I suppose?\"\n\nPenrod, turning to the door, suspected jocularity, but he found himself\nwithout recourse; he was nonplussed.\n\n\"Sure you won't let me have that horn tied up in nice wrapping-paper in\ncase you decide to take it?\"\n\nPenrod was almost positive that the spirit of this question was\nsatirical; but he was unable to reply, except by a feeble shake of the\nhead--though ten minutes later, as he plodded forlornly his homeward\nway, he looked over his shoulder and sent backward a few words of morose\nrepartee:\n\n\"Oh, I am, am I?\" he muttered, evidently concluding a conversation\nwhich he had continued mentally with the salesman. \"Well, you're double\nanything you call me, so that makes you a smart Aleck twice! Ole double\nsmart Aleck!\"\n\nAfter that, he walked with the least bit more briskness, but not much.\nNo wonder he felt discouraged: there are times when eighty-five dollars\ncan be a blow to anybody! Penrod was so stunned that he actually\nforgot what was in his pocket. He passed two drug stores, and they had\nabsolutely no meaning to him. He walked all the way without spending a\ncent.\n\nAt home he spent a moment in the kitchen pantry while the cook was\nin the cellar; then he went out to the stable and began some really\npathetic experiments. His materials were the small tin funnel which he\nhad obtained in the pantry, and a short section of old garden hose. He\ninserted the funnel into one end of the garden hose, and made it fast by\nwrappings of cord. Then he arranged the hose in a double, circular coil,\ntied it so that it would remain coiled, and blew into the other end.\n\nHe blew and blew and blew; he set his lips tight together, as he had\nobserved the little musician with the big horn set his, and blew\nand sputtered, and sputtered and blew, but nothing of the slightest\nimportance happened in the orifice of the funnel. Still he blew. He\nbegan to be dizzy; his eyes watered; his expression became as horrible\nas a strangled person's. He but blew the more. He stamped his feet and\nblew. He staggered to the wheelbarrow, sat, and blew--and yet the funnel\nuttered nothing; it seemed merely to breathe hard.\n\nIt would not sound like a horn, and, when Penrod finally gave up, he had\nto admit piteously that it did not look like a horn. No boy over nine\ncould have pretended that it was a horn.\n\nHe tossed the thing upon the floor, and leaned back in the wheelbarrow,\ninert.\n\n\"Yay, Penrod!\"\n\nSam Williams appeared in the doorway, and, behind Sam, Master Roderick\nMagsworth Bitts, Junior.\n\n\"Yay, there!\"\n\nPenrod made no response.\n\nThe two came in, and Sam picked up the poor contrivance Penrod had\ntossed upon the floor.\n\n\"What's this ole dingus?\" Sam asked.\n\n\"Nothin'.\"\n\n\"Well, what's it for?\"\n\n\"Nothin',\" said Penrod. \"It's a kind of a horn.\"\n\n\"What kind?\"\n\n\"For music,\" said Penrod simply.\n\nMaster Bitts laughed loud and long; he was derisive. \"Music!\" he yipped.\n\"I thought you meant a cow's horn! He says it's a music-horn, Sam? What\nyou think o' that?\"\n\nSam blew into the thing industriously.\n\n\"It won't work,\" he announced.\n\n\"Course it won't!\" Roddy Bitts shouted. \"You can't make it go without\nyou got a REAL horn. I'm goin' to get me a real horn some day before\nlong, and then you'll see me goin' up and down here playin' it like\nsixty! I'll--\"\n\n\"'Some day before long!'\" Sam mocked. \"Yes, we will! Why'n't you get it\nto-day, if you're goin' to?\"\n\n\"I would,\" said Roddy. \"I'd go get the money from my father right now,\nonly he wouldn't give it to me.\"\n\nSam whooped, and Penrod, in spite of his great depression, uttered a few\njibing sounds.\n\n\"I'd get MY father to buy me a fire-engine and team o' HORSES,\" Sam\nbellowed, \"only he wouldn't!\"\n\n\"Listen, can't you?\" cried Roddy. \"I mean he would most any time,\nbut not this month. I can't have any money for a month beginning last\nSaturday, because I got paint on one of our dogs, and he came in the\nhouse with it on him, and got some on pretty near everything. If it\nhadn't 'a' been for that--\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" said Sam. \"If it hadn't 'a' been for that! It's always\nSUMPTHING!\"\n\n\"It is not!\"\n\n\"Well, then, why'n't you go GET a real horn?\"\n\nRoddy's face had flushed with irritation.\n\n\"Well, didn't I just TELL you--\" he began, but paused, while the renewal\nof some interesting recollection became visible in his expression. \"Why,\nI COULD, if I wanted to,\" he said more calmly. \"It wouldn't be a new\none, maybe. I guess it would be kind of an old one, but--\"\n\n\"Oh, a toy horn!\" said Sam. \"I expect one you had when you were three\nyears old, and your mother stuck it up in the attic to keep till you're\ndead, or sumpthing!\"\n\n\"It's not either any toy horn,\" Roddy insisted. \"It's a reg'lar horn for\na band, and I could have it as easy as anything.\"\n\nThe tone of this declaration was so sincere that it roused the lethargic\nPenrod.\n\n\"Roddy, is that true?\" he sat up to inquire piercingly.\n\n\"Of course it is!\" Master Bitts returned. \"What you take me for? I could\ngo get that horn this minute if I wanted to.\"\n\n\"A real one--honest?\"\n\n\"Well, didn't I say it was a real one?\"\n\n\"Like in the BAND?\"\n\n\"I said so, didn't I?\"\n\n\"I guess you mean one of those little ones,\" said Penrod.\n\n\"No, sir!\" Roddy insisted stoutly; \"it's a big one! It winds around in a\nbig circle that would go all the way around a pretty fat man.\"\n\n\"What store is it in?\"\n\n\"It's not in any store,\" said Roddy. \"It's at my Uncle Ethelbert's. He's\ngot this horn and three or four pianos and a couple o' harps and--\"\n\n\"Does he keep a music store?\"\n\n\"No. These harps and pianos and all such are old ones--awful old.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Sam, \"he runs a second-hand store!\"\n\n\"He does not!\" Master Bitts returned angrily. \"He doesn't do anything.\nHe's just got 'em. He's got forty-one guitars.\"\n\n\"Yay!\" Sam whooped, and jumped up and down. \"Listen to Roddy Bitts\nmakin' up lies!\"\n\n\"You look out, Sam Williams!\" said Roddy threateningly. \"You look out\nhow you call me names!\"\n\n\"What name'd I call you?\"\n\n\"You just the same as said I told lies. That's just as good as callin'\nme a liar, isn't it?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Sam; \"but I got a right to, if I want to. Haven't I, Penrod?\"\n\n\"How?\" Roddy demanded hotly. \"How you got a right to?\"\n\n\"Because you can't prove what you said.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Roddy, \"you'd be just as much of one if you can't prove\nwhat I said WASN'T true.\"\n\n\"No, sir! You either got to prove it or be a liar. Isn't that so,\nPenrod.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" Penrod ruled, with a little importance, \"that's the way it\nis, Roddy.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Roddy, \"come on over to my Uncle Ethelbert's, and\nI'll show you!\"\n\n\"No,\" said Sam. \"I wouldn't walk over there just to find out sumpthing\nI already know isn't so. Outside of a music store there isn't anybody in\nthe world got forty-one guitars! I've heard lots o' people TALK, but I\nnever heard such a big l--\"\n\n\"You shut up!\" shouted Roddy. \"You ole--\"\n\nPenrod interposed.\n\n\"Why'n't you show us the horn, Roddy?\" he asked. \"You said you could get\nit. You show us the horn and we'll believe you. If you show us the horn,\nSam'll haf to take what he said back; won't you, Sam?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Sam, and added. \"He hasn't got any. He went and told a--\"\n\nRoddy's eyes were bright with rage; he breathed noisily.\n\n\"I haven't?\" he cried. \"You just wait here, and I'll show you!\"\n\nAnd he ran furiously from the stable.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII. THE HORN OF FAME\n\n\"Bet he won't come back!\" said Sam.\n\n\"Well, he might.\"\n\n\"Well, if he does and he hasn't got any horn, I got a right to call him\nanything I want to, and he's got to stand it. And if he doesn't come\nback,\" Sam continued, as by the code, \"then I got a right to call him\nwhatever I like next time I ketch him out.\"\n\n\"I expect he'll have SOME kind of ole horn, maybe,\" said Penrod.\n\n\"No,\" the skeptical Sam insisted, \"he won't.\"\n\nBut Roddy did. Twenty minutes elapsed, and both the waiting boys had\ndecided that they were legally entitled to call him whatever they\nthought fitting, when he burst in, puffing; and in his hands he bore a\nhorn. It was a \"real\" one, and of a kind that neither Penrod nor Sam had\never seen before, though they failed to realize this, because its shape\nwas instantly familiar to them. No horn could have been simpler: it\nconsisted merely of one circular coil of brass with a mouthpiece at\none end for the musician, and a wide-flaring mouth of its own, for the\nnoise, at the other. But it was obviously a second-hand horn; dents\nslightly marred it, here and there, and its surface was dull, rather\ngreenish. There were no keys; and a badly faded green cord and tassel\nhung from the coil.\n\nEven so shabby a horn as this electrified Penrod. It was not a\nstupendous horn, but it was a horn, and when a boy has been sighing for\nthe moon, a piece of green cheese will satisfy him, for he can play that\nit is the moon.\n\n\"Gimme that HORN!\" Penrod shouted, as he dashed for it.\n\n\"YAY!\" Sam cried, and sought to wrest it from him. Roddy joined the\nscuffle, trying to retain the horn; but Penrod managed to secure it.\nWith one free hand he fended the others off while he blew into the\nmouthpiece.\n\n\"Let me have it,\" Sam urged. \"You can't do anything with it. Lemme take\nit, Penrod.\"\n\n\"No!\" said Roddy. \"Let ME! My goodness! Ain't I got any right to blow my\nown horn?\"\n\nThey pressed upon Penrod, who frantically fended and frantically blew.\nAt last he remembered to compress his lips, and force the air through\nthe compression.\n\nA magnificent snort from the horn was his reward. He removed his lips\nfrom the mouthpiece, and capered in pride.\n\n\"Hah!\" he cried. \"Hear that? I guess _I_ can't play this good ole horn!\nOh, no!\"\n\nDuring his capers, Sam captured the horn. But Sam had not made the best\nof his opportunities as an observer of bands; he thrust the mouthpiece\ndeep into his mouth, and blew until his expression became one of agony.\n\n\"No, no!\" Penrod exclaimed. \"You haven't got the secret of blowin' a\nhorn, Sam. What's the use your keepin' hold of it, when you don't know\nany more about it 'n that? It ain't makin' a sound! You lemme have that\ngood ole horn back, Sam. Haven't you got sense enough to see I know how\nto PLAY?\"\n\nLaying hands upon it, he jerked it away from Sam, who was a little\npiqued over the failure of his own efforts, especially as Penrod now\nproduced a sonarous blat--quite a long one. Sam became cross.\n\n\"My goodness!\" Roddy Bitts said peevishly. \"Ain't I ever goin' to get\na turn at my own horn? Here you've had two turns, Penrod, and even Sam\nWilliams--\"\n\nSam's petulance at once directed itself toward Roddy partly because of\nthe latter's tactless use of the word \"even,\" and the two engaged in\ncontroversy, while Penrod was left free to continue the experiments\nwhich so enraptured him.\n\n\"Your own horn!\" Sam sneered. \"I bet it isn't yours! Anyway, you can't\nprove it's yours, and that gives me a right to call you any--\"\n\n\"You better not! It is, too, mine. It's just the same as mine!\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Sam; \"I bet you got to take it back where you got it,\nand that's not anything like the same as yours; so I got a perfect right\nto call you whatev--\"\n\n\"I do NOT haf to take it back where I got it, either!\" Roddy cried, more\nand more irritated by his opponent's persistence in stating his rights\nin this matter.\n\n\"I BET they told you to bring it back,\" said Sam tauntingly.\n\n\"They didn't, either! There wasn't anybody there.\"\n\n\"Yay! Then you got to get it back before they know it's gone.\"\n\n\"I don't either any such a thing! I heard my Uncle Ethelbert say Sunday\nhe didn't want it. He said he wished somebody'd take that horn off his\nhands so's he could buy sumpthing else. That's just exactly what he\nsaid. I heard him tell my mother. He said, 'I guess I prackly got to\ngive it away if I'm ever goin' to get rid of it.' Well, when my own\nuncle says he wants to give a horn away, and he wishes he could get rid\nof it, I guess it's just the same as mine, soon as I go and take it,\nisn't it? I'm goin' to keep it.\"\n\nSam was shaken, but he had set out to demonstrate those rights of his\nand did not mean to yield them.\n\n\"Yes; you'll have a NICE time,\" he said, \"next time your uncle goes to\nplay on that horn and can't find it. No, sir; I got a perfect ri--\"\n\n\"My uncle don't PLAY on it!\" Roddy shrieked. \"It's an ole wore-out horn\nnobody wants, and it's mine, I tell you! I can blow on it, or bust it,\nor kick it out in the alley and leave it there, if I want to!\"\n\n\"No, you can't!\"\n\n\"I can, too!\"\n\n\"No, you can't. You can't PROVE you can, and unless you prove it, I got\na perf--\"\n\nRoddy stamped his foot. \"I can, too!\" he shrieked. \"You ole durn\njackass, I can, too! I can, can, can, can--\"\n\nPenrod suddenly stopped his intermittent production of blats, and\nintervened. \"_I_ know how you can prove it, Roddy,\" he said briskly.\n\"There's one way anybody can always prove sumpthing belongs to them,\nso that nobody'd have a right to call them what they wanted to. You can\nprove it's yours, EASY!\"\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Penrod, \"if you give it away.\"\n\n\"What you mean?\" asked Roddy, frowning.\n\n\"Well, look here,\" Penrod began brightly. \"You can't give anything away\nthat doesn't belong to you, can you?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"So, then,\" the resourceful boy continued, \"f'r instance, if you give\nthis ole horn to me, that'd prove it was yours, and Sam'd haf to say it\nwas, and he wouldn't have any right to--\"\n\n\"I won't do it!\" said Roddy sourly. \"I don't want to give you that horn.\nWhat I want to give you anything at all for?\"\n\nPenrod sighed, as if the task of reaching Roddy's mind with reason were\ntoo heavy for him. \"Well, if you don't want to prove it, and rather\nlet us have the right to call you anything we want to--well, all right,\nthen,\" he said.\n\n\"You look out what you call me!\" Roddy cried, only the more incensed, in\nspite of the pains Penrod was taking with him. \"I don't haf to prove it.\nIt's MINE!\"\n\n\"What kind o' proof is that?\" Sam Williams demanded severely. \"You GOT\nto prove it and you can't do it!\"\n\nRoddy began a reply, but his agitation was so great that what he said\nhad not attained coherency when Penrod again intervened. He had just\nremembered something important.\n\n\"Oh, _I_ know, Roddy!\" he exclaimed. \"If you sell it, that'd prove it\nwas yours almost as good as givin' it away. What'll you take for it?\"\n\n\"I don't want to sell it,\" said Roddy sulkily.\n\n\"Yay! Yay! YAY!\" shouted the taunting Sam Williams, whose every word and\nsound had now become almost unbearable to Master Bitts. Sam was usually\nso good-natured that the only explanation of his conduct must lie in the\nfact that Roddy constitutionally got on his nerves. \"He KNOWS he can't\nprove it! He's a goner, and now we can begin callin' him anything we can\nthink of! I choose to call him one first, Penrod. Roddy, you're a--\"\n\n\"Wait!\" shouted Penrod, for he really believed Roddy's claims to be\nboth moral and legal. When an uncle who does not even play upon an old\nsecond-hand horn wishes to get rid of that horn, and even complains of\nhaving it on his hands, it seems reasonable to consider that the horn\nbecomes the property of a nephew who has gone to the trouble of carrying\nthe undesired thing out of the house.\n\nPenrod determined to deal fairly. The difference between this horn\nand the one in the \"music-store\" window seemed to him just about the\ndifference between two and eighty-five. He drew forth the green bill\nfrom his pocket.\n\n\"Roddy,\" he said, \"I'll give you two dollars for that horn.\"\n\nSam Williams's mouth fell open; he was silenced indeed. But for a\nmoment, the confused and badgered Roddy was incredulous; he had not\ndreamed that Penrod possessed such a sum.\n\n\"Lemme take a look at that money!\" he said.\n\nIf at first there had been in Roddy's mind a little doubt about his\npresent rights of ownership, he had talked himself out of it. Also,\nhis financial supplies for the month were cut off, on account of the\ncareless dog. Finally, he thought that the horn was worth about fifty\ncents.\n\n\"I'll do it, Penrod!\" he said with decision.\n\nThereupon Penrod shouted aloud, prancing up and down the carriage-house\nwith the horn. Roddy was happy, too, land mingled his voice with\nPenrod's.\n\n\"Hi! Hi! Hi!\" shouted Roddy Bitts. \"I'm goin' to buy me an air-gun down\nat Fox's hardware store!\"\n\nAnd he departed, galloping.\n\n... He returned the following afternoon. School was over, and Penrod\nand Sam were again in the stable; Penrod \"was practising\" upon the horn,\nwith Sam for an unenthusiastic spectator and auditor. Master Bitts' brow\nwas heavy; he looked uneasy.\n\n\"Penrod,\" he began, \"I got to--\"\n\nPenrod removed the horn briefly from his lips.\n\n\"Don't come bangin' around here and interrup' me all the time,\" he said\nseverely. \"I got to practice.\"\n\nAnd he again pressed the mouthpiece to his lips. He was not of those\nwhom importance makes gracious.\n\n\"Look here, Penrod,\" said Roddy, \"I got to have that horn back.\"\n\nPenrod lowered the horn quickly enough at this.\n\n\"What you talkin' about?\" he demanded. \"What you want to come bangin'\naround here for and--\"\n\n\"I came around here for that horn,\" Master Bitts returned, and his\nmanner was both dogged and apprehensive, the apprehension being more\nprevalent when he looked at Sam. \"I got to have that horn,\" he said.\n\nSam, who had been sitting in the wheelbarrow, jumped up and began to\ndance triumphantly.\n\n\"Yay! It WASN'T his, after all! Roddy Bitts told a big l--\"\n\n\"I never, either!\" Roddy almost wailed.\n\n\"Well, what you want the horn back for?\" the terrible Sam demanded.\n\n\"Well, 'cause I want it. I got a right to want it if I want to, haven't\nI?\"\n\nPenrod's face had flushed with indignation.\n\n\"You look here, Sam,\" he began hotly. \"Didn't you hear Roddy say this\nwas his horn?\"\n\n\"He said it!\" Sam declared. \"He said it a million times!\"\n\n\"Well, and didn't he sell this horn to me?\"\n\n\"Yes, SIR!\"\n\n\"Didn't I pay him money cash down for it?\"\n\n\"Two dollars!\"\n\n\"Well, and ain't it my horn now, Sam?\"\n\n\"You bet you!\"\n\n\"YES, sir!\" Penrod went on with vigour. \"It's my horn now whether it\nbelonged to you or not, Roddy, because you SOLD it to me and I paid my\ngood ole money for it. I guess a thing belongs to th`, person that paid\ntheir own money for it, doesn't it? _I_ don't haf to give up my own\npropaty, even if you did come on over here and told us a big l--\"\n\n\"_I_ NEVER!\" shouted Roddy. \"It was my horn, too, and I didn't tell any\nsuch a thing!\" He paused; then, reverting to his former manner, said\nstubbornly, \"I got to have that horn back. I GOT to!\"\n\n\"Why'n't you tell us what FOR, then?\" Sam insisted.\n\nRoddy's glance at this persecutor was one of anguish.\n\n\"I know my own biz'nuss!\" he muttered.\n\nAnd while Sam jeered, Roddy turned to Penrod desperately.\n\n\"You gimme that horn back! I got to have it.\"\n\nBut Penrod followed Sam's lead.\n\n\"Well, why can't you tell us what FOR?\" he asked.\n\nPerhaps if Sam had not been there, Roddy could have unbosomed himself.\nHe had no doubt of his own virtue in this affair, and he was conscious\nthat he had acted in good faith throughout--though, perhaps, a little\nimpulsively. But he was in a predicament, and he knew that if he became\nmore explicit, Sam could establish with undeniable logic those rights\nabout which he had been so odious the day before. Such triumph for\nSam was not within Roddy's power to contemplate; he felt that he would\nrather die, or sumpthing.\n\n\"I got to have that horn!\" he reiterated woodenly.\n\nPenrod had no intention to humour this preposterous boy, and it was\nonly out of curiosity that he asked, \"Well, if you want the horn back,\nwhere's the two dollars?\"\n\n\"I spent it. I bought an air-gun for a dollar and sixty-five cents, and\nthree sodies and some candy with the rest. I'll owe you the two dollars,\nPenrod. I'm willing to do that much.\"\n\n\"Well, why don't you give him the air-gun,\" asked the satirical Sam,\n\"and owe him the rest?\"\n\n\"I can't. Papa took the air-gun away from me because he didn't like\nsumpthing I did with it. I got to owe you the whole two dollars,\nPenrod.\"\n\n\"Look here, Roddy,\" said Penrod. \"Don't you s'pose I'd rather keep this\nhorn and blow on it than have you owe me two dollars?\"\n\nThere was something about this simple question which convinced Roddy\nthat his cause was lost. His hopes had been but faint from the beginning\nof the interview.\n\n\"Well--\" said Roddy. For a time he scuffed the floor with his shoe.\n\"Daw-gone it!\" he said, at last; and he departed morosely.\n\nPenrod had already begun to \"practice\" again, and Mr. Williams,\nafter vain appeals to be permitted to practice in turn, sank into\nthe wheelbarrow in a state of boredom, not remarkable under the\ncircumstances. Then Penrod contrived--it may have been accidental--to\nproduce at one blast two tones which varied in pitch.\n\nHis pride and excitement were extreme though not contagious. \"Listen,\nSam!\" he shouted. \"How's THAT for high?\"\n\nThe bored Sam made no response other than to rise languidly to his feet,\nstretch, and start for home.\n\nLeft alone, Penrod's practice became less ardent; he needed the stimulus\nof an auditor. With the horn upon his lap he began to rub the greenish\nbrass surface with a rag. He meant to make this good ole two-dollar horn\nof his LOOK like sumpthing!\n\nPresently, moved by a better idea, he left the horn in the stable and\nwent into the house, soon afterward appearing before his mother in the\nlibrary.\n\n\"Mamma,\" he said, complainingly, \"Della won't--\"\n\nBut Mrs. Schofield checked him.\n\n\"Sh, Penrod; your father's reading the paper.\"\n\nPenrod glanced at Mr. Schofield, who sat near the window, reading by the\nlast light of the early sunset.\n\n\"Well, I know it,\" said Penrod, lowering his voice. \"But I wish you'd\ntell Della to let me have the silver polish. She says she won't, and I\nwant to--\"\n\n\"Be quiet, Penrod, you can't have the silver polish.\"\n\n\"But, mamma--\"\n\n\"Not another word. Can't you see you're interrupting your father. Go on,\npapa.\"\n\nMr. Schofield read aloud several despatches from abroad, and after each\none of them Penrod began in a low but pleading tone:\n\n\"Mamma, I want--\"\n\n\"SH, Penrod!\"\n\nMr. Schofield continued to read, and Penrod remained in the room, for he\nwas determined to have the silver polish.\n\n\"Here's something curious,\" said Mr. Schofield, as his eye fell upon a\nparagraph among the \"locals.\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"Valuable relic missing,\" Mr. Schofield read. \"It was reported at police\nheadquarters to-day that a 'valuable object had been stolen from the\ncollection of antique musical instruments owned by E. Magsworth Bitts,\n724 Central Avenue. The police insist that it must have been an inside\njob, but Mr. Magsworth Bitts inclines to think it was the work of a\nnegro, as only one article was removed and nothing else found to be\ndisturbed. The object stolen was an ancient hunting-horn dating from\nthe eighteenth century and claimed to have belonged to Louis XV, King of\nFrance. It was valued at about twelve hundred and fifty dollars.\"\n\nMrs. Schofield opened her mouth wide. \"Why, that IS curious!\" she\nexclaimed.\n\nShe jumped up. \"Penrod!\"\n\nBut Penrod was no longer in the room.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" Mr. Schofield inquired.\n\n\"Penrod!\" said Mrs. Schofield breathlessly. \"HE bought an old horn--like\none in old hunting-pictures--yesterday! He bought it with some money\nUncle Joe gave him! He bought it from Roddy Bitts!\"\n\n\"Where'd he go?\"\n\nTogether they rushed to the back porch.\n\nPenrod had removed the lid of the cistern; he was kneeling beside it,\nand the fact that the diameter of the opening into the cistern was\none inch less than the diameter of the coil of Louis the Fifteenth's\nhunting-horn was all that had just saved Louis the Fifteenth's\nhunting-horn from joining the drowned trousers of Herman.\n\nSuch was Penrod's instinct, and thus loyally he had followed it.\n\n... He was dragged into the library, expecting anything whatever. The\ndreadful phrases of the newspaper item rang through his head like the\ngongs of delirium: \"Police headquarters!\" \"Work of a negro!\" \"King of\nFrance!\" \"Valued at about twelve hundred and fifty dollars!\"\n\nEighty-five dollars had dismayed him; twelve hundred and fifty was\nunthinkable. Nightmares were coming to life before his eyes.\n\nBut a light broke slowly; it came first to Mr. and Mrs. Schofield, and\nit was they who illuminated Penrod. Slowly, slowly, as they spoke more\nand more pleasantly to him, it began to dawn upon him that this trouble\nwas all Roddy's.\n\nAnd when Mr. Schofield went to take the horn to the house of Mr.\nEthelbert Magsworth Bitts, Penrod sat quietly with his mother. Mr.\nSchofield was gone an hour and a half. Upon his solemn return he\nreported that Roddy's father had been summoned by telephone to bring his\nson to the house of Uncle Ethelbert. Mr. Bitts had forthwith appeared\nwith Roddy, and, when Mr. Schofield came away, Roddy was still (after\nhalf an hour's previous efforts) explaining his honourable intentions.\nMr. Schofield indicated that Roddy's condition was agitated, and that he\nwas having a great deal of difficulty in making his position clear.\n\nPenrod's imagination paused outside the threshold of that room in Mr.\nEthelbert Magsworth Bitts' house, and awe fell upon him when he thought\nof it. Roddy seemed to have disappeared within a shrouding mist where\nPenrod's mind refused to follow him.\n\n\"Well, he got back his ole horn!\" said Sam after school the next\nafternoon. \"I KNEW we had a perfect right to call him whatever we wanted\nto! I bet you hated to give up that good ole horn, Penrod.\"\n\nBut Penrod was serene. He was even a little superior.\n\n\"Pshaw!\" he said. \"I'm goin' to learn to play on sumpthing better'n any\nole horn. It's lots better, because you can carry it around with you\nanywhere, and you couldn't a horn.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" Sam asked, not too much pleased by Penrod's air of\nsuperiority and high content. \"You mean a jew's-harp?\"\n\n\"I guess not! I mean a flute with all silver on it and everything. My\nfather's goin' to buy me one.\"\n\n\"I bet he isn't!\"\n\n\"He is, too,\" said Penrod; \"soon as I'm twenty-one years old.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII. THE PARTY\n\n        ____________________________\n       |                            |\n       |     Miss Amy Rennsdale     |\n       |                            |\n       |          At Home           |\n       | Saturday, the twenty-third |\n       |     from three to six      |\n       |                            |\n       | R.s.v.p.           Dancing |\n        ----------------------------\n\nThis little card, delicately engraved, betokened the hospitality\nincidental to the ninth birthday anniversary of Baby Rennsdale, youngest\nmember of the Friday Afternoon Dancing Class, and, by the same token, it\nrepresented the total social activity (during that season) of a certain\nlimited bachelor set consisting of Messrs. Penrod Schofield and Samuel\nWilliams. The truth must be faced: Penrod and Sam were seldom invited to\nsmall parties; they were considered too imaginative. But in the case of\nso large an affair as Miss Rennsdale's, the feeling that their parents\nwould be sensitive outweighed fears of what Penrod and Sam might do at\nthe party. Reputation is indeed a bubble, but sometimes it is blown of\nsticky stuff.\n\nThe comrades set out for the fete in company, final maternal outpourings\nupon deportment and the duty of dancing with the hostess evaporating in\ntheir freshly cleaned ears. Both boys, however, were in a state of\nmind, body, and decoration appropriate to the gala scene they were\napproaching. Their collars were wide and white; inside the pockets of\ntheir overcoats were glistening dancing-pumps, wrapped in tissue-paper;\ninside their jacket pockets were pleasant-smelling new white gloves,\nand inside their heads solemn timidity commingled with glittering\nanticipations. Before them, like a Christmas tree glimpsed through\nlace curtains, they beheld joy shimmering--music, ice-cream, macaroons,\ntinsel caps, and the starched ladies of their hearts Penrod and Sam\nwalked demurely yet almost boundingly; their faces were shining but\ngrave--they were on their way to the Party!\n\n\"Look at there!\" said Penrod. \"There's Carlie Chitten!\"\n\n\"Where?\" Sam asked.\n\n\"'Cross the street. Haven't you got any eyes?\"\n\n\"Well, whyn't you say he was 'cross the street in the first place?\"\nSam returned plaintively. \"Besides, he's so little you can't hardly\nsee him.\" This was, of course, a violent exaggeration, though Master\nChitten, not yet eleven years old, was an inch or two short for his age.\n\"He's all dressed up,\" Sam added. \"I guess he must be invited.\"\n\n\"I bet he does sumpthing,\" said Penrod.\n\n\"I bet he does, too,\" Sam agreed.\n\nThis was the extent of their comment upon the small person across the\nstreet; but, in spite of its non-committal character, the manner of both\ncommentators seemed to indicate that they had just exchanged views upon\nan interesting and even curious subject. They walked along in silence\nfor several minutes, staring speculatively at Master Chitten.\n\nHis appearance was pleasant and not remarkable. He was a handsome, dark\nlittle boy, with quick eyes and a precociously reserved expression; his\nair was \"well-bred\"; he was exquisitely neat, and he had a look of manly\ncompetence that grown people found attractive and reassuring. In short,\nhe was a boy of whom a timid adult stranger would have inquired the way\nwith confidence. And yet Sam and Penrod had mysterious thoughts about\nhim--obviously there was something subterranean here.\n\nThey continued to look at him for the greater part of block, when,\ntheir progress bringing them in sight of Miss Amy Rennsdale's place of\nresidence their attention was directed to a group of men bearing festal\nburdens--encased violins, a shrouded harp and other beckoning shapes.\nThere were signs, too, that most of \"those invited\" intended to miss no\nmoment of this party; guests already indoors watched from the windows\nthe approach of the musicians. Washed boys in black and white, and girls\nin tender colours converged from various directions, making gayly for\nthe thrilling gateway--and the most beautiful little girl in all the\nworld, Marjorie Jones, of the amber curls, jumped from a carriage step\nto the curbstone as Penrod and Sam came up. She waved to them.\n\nSam responded heartily; but Penrod, feeling real emotion and seeking\nto conceal it, muttered, \"'Lo, Marjorie!\" gruffly, offering no further\ndemonstration. Marjorie paused a moment, expectant, and then, as he did\nnot seize the opportunity to ask her for the first dance, she tried\nnot to look disappointed and ran into the house ahead of the two boys.\nPenrod was scarlet; he wished to dance the first dance with Marjorie,\nand the second and the third and all the other dances, and he strongly\ndesired to sit with her \"at refreshments\"; but he had been unable to ask\nfor a single one of these privileges. It would have been impossible for\nhim to state why he was thus dumb, although the reason was simple and\nwholly complimentary to Marjorie: she had looked so overpoweringly\npretty that she had produced in the bosom of her admirer a severe case\nof stage fright. That was \"all the matter with him\"; but it was the\nbeginning of his troubles, and he did not recover until he and Sam\nreached the \"gentlemen's dressing-room\", whither they were directed by a\npolite coloured man.\n\nHere they found a cloud of acquaintances getting into pumps and gloves,\nand, in a few extreme cases, readjusting hair before a mirror. Some even\nwent so far--after removing their shoes and putting on their pumps--as\nto wash traces of blacking from their hands in the adjacent bathroom\nbefore assuming their gloves. Penrod, being in a strange mood, was one\nof these, sharing the basin with little Maurice Levy.\n\n\"Carrie Chitten's here,\" said Maurice, as they soaped their hands.\n\n\"I guess I know it,\" Penrod returned. \"I bet he does sumpthing, too.\"\n\nMaurice shook his head ominously. \"Well, I'm gettin' tired of it. I know\nhe was the one stuck that cold fried egg in P'fesser Bartet's overcoat\npocket at dancin'-school, and ole p'fesser went and blamed it on me.\nThen, Carlie, he cum up to me, th' other day, and he says, 'Smell my\nbuttonhole bokay.' He had some vi'lets stickin' in his buttonhole, and\nI went to smell 'em and water squirted on me out of 'em. I guess I've\nstood about enough, and if he does another thing I don't like, he better\nlook out!\"\n\nPenrod showed some interest, inquiring for details, whereupon Maurice\nexplained that if Master Chitten displeased him further, Master Chitten\nwould receive a blow upon one of his features. Maurice was simple and\nhomely about it, seeking rhetorical vigour rather than elegance; in\nfact, what he definitely promised Master Chitten was \"a bang on the\nsnoot.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Penrod, \"he never bothered ME any. I expect he knows too\nmuch for that!\"\n\nA cry of pain was heard from the dressing-room at this juncture, and,\nglancing through the doorway, Maurice and Penrod beheld Sam Williams in\nthe act of sucking his right thumb with vehemence, the while his brow\nwas contorted and his eyes watered. He came into the bathroom and held\nhis thumb under a faucet.\n\n\"That darn little Carlie Chitten!\" he complained. \"He ast me to hold a\nlittle tin box he showed me. He told me to hold it between my thumb and\nfingers and he'd show me sumpthing. Then he pushed the lid, and a big\nneedle came out of a hole and stuck me half through my thumb. That's a\nNICE way to act, isn't it?\"\n\nCarlie Chitten's dark head showed itself cautiously beyond the casing of\nthe door.\n\n\"How's your thumb, Sam?\" he asked.\n\n\"You wait!\" Sam shouted, turning furiously; but the small\nprestidigitator was gone. With a smothered laugh, Carlie dashed through\nthe groups of boys in the dressing-room and made his way downstairs,\nhis manner reverting to its usual polite gravity before he entered the\ndrawing-room, where his hostess waited. Music sounding at about this\ntime, he was followed by the other boys, who came trooping down, leaving\nthe dressing-room empty.\n\nPenrod, among the tail-enders of the procession, made his dancing-school\nbow to Miss Rennsdale and her grown-up supporters (two maiden aunts and\na governess) then he looked about for Marjorie, discovering her but too\neasily. Her amber curls were swaying gently in time to the music; she\nlooked never more beautiful, and her partner was Master Chitten!\n\nA pang of great penetrative power and equal unexpectedness found the\nmost vulnerable spot beneath the simple black of Penrod Schofield's\njacket. Straightway he turned his back upon the crash-covered floors\nwhere the dancers were, and moved gloomily toward the hall. But one of\nthe maiden aunts Rennsdale waylaid him.\n\n\"It's Penrod Schofield, isn't it?\" she asked. \"Or Sammy Williams? I'm\nnot sure which. Is it Penrod?\"\n\n\"Ma'am?\" he said. \"Yes'm.\"\n\n\"Well, Penrod, I can find a partner for you. There are several dear\nlittle girls over here, if you'll come with me.\"\n\n\"Well--\" He paused, shifted from one foot to the other, and looked\nenigmatic. \"I better not,\" he said. He meant no offence; his trouble was\nonly that he had not yet learned how to do as he pleased at a party and,\nat the same time, to seem polite about it. \"I guess I don't want to,\" he\nadded.\n\n\"Very well!\" And Miss Rennsdale instantly left him to his own devices.\n\nHe went to lurk in the wide doorway between the hall and the\ndrawing-room--under such conditions the universal refuge of his sex at\nall ages. There he found several boys of notorious shyness, and stood\nwith them in a mutually protective group. Now and then one of them would\nlean upon another until repelled by action and a husky \"What's matter\n'th you? Get off o' me!\" They all twisted their slender necks uneasily\nagainst the inner bands of their collars, at intervals, and sometimes\nexchanged facetious blows under cover. In the distance Penrod caught\nglimpses of amber curls flashing to and fro, and he knew himself to be\namong the derelicts.\n\nHe remained in this questionable sanctuary during the next dance; but,\nedging along the wall to lean more comfortably in a corner, as the music\nof the third sounded, he overheard part of a conversation that somewhat\nconcerned him. The participants were the governess of his hostess, Miss\nLowe, and that one of the aunts Rennsdale who had offered to provide\nhim with a partner. These two ladies were standing just in front of him,\nunconscious of his nearness.\n\n\"I never,\" Miss Rennsdale said, \"never saw a more fascinating little boy\nthan that Carlie Chitten. There'll be some heartaches when he grows up;\nI can't keep my eyes off him.\"\n\n\"Yes; he's a charming boy,\" Miss Lowe said. \"His manners are\nremarkable.\"\n\n\"He's a little man of the world,\" the enthusiastic Miss Rennsdale went\non, \"very different from such boys as Penrod Schofield!\"\n\n\"Oh, PENROD!\" Miss Lowe exclaimed. \"Good gracious!\"\n\n\"I don't see why he came. He declines to dance--rudely, too!\"\n\n\"I don't think the little girls will mind that so much!\" Miss Lowe said.\n\"If you'd come to the dancing class some Friday with Amy and me, you'd\nunderstand why.\"\n\nThey moved away. Penrod heard his name again mentioned between them as\nthey went, and, though he did not catch the accompanying remark, he was\ninclined to think it unfavourable. He remained where he was, brooding\nmorbidly.\n\nHe understood that the government was against him, nor was his judgment\nat fault in this conclusion. He was affected, also, by the conduct of\nMarjorie, who was now dancing gayly with Maurice Levy, a former rival\nof Penrod's. The fact that Penrod had not gone near her did not make her\nculpability seem the less; in his gloomy heart he resolved not to ask\nher for one single dance. He would not go near her. He would not go near\nANY OF 'EM!\n\nHis eyes began to burn, and he swallowed heavily; but he was never one\nto succumb piteously to such emotion, and it did not even enter his head\nthat he was at liberty to return to his own home. Neither he nor any\nof his friends had ever left a party until it was officially concluded.\nWhat his sufferings demanded of him now for their alleviation was not\ndeparture but action!\n\nUnderneath the surface, nearly all children's parties contain a group\nof outlaws who wait only for a leader to hoist the black flag. The group\nconsists mainly of boys too shy to be at ease with the girls, but\nwho wish to distinguish themselves in some way; and there are others,\nordinarily well behaved, whom the mere actuality of a party makes\ndrunken. The effect of music, too, upon children is incalculable,\nespecially when they do not hear it often--and both a snare-drum and a\nbass drum were in the expensive orchestra at the Rennsdale party.\n\nNevertheless, the outlawry at any party may remain incipient unless a\nchieftain appears; but in Penrod's corner were now gathering into one\nanarchical mood all the necessary qualifications for leadership. Out\nof that bitter corner there stepped, not a Penrod Schofield subdued\nand hoping to win the lost favour of the Authorities, but a hot-hearted\nrebel determined on an uprising.\n\nSmiling a reckless and challenging smile, he returned to the cluster\nof boys in the wide doorway and began to push one and another of them\nabout. They responded hopefully with counter-pushes, and presently there\nwas a tumultuous surging and eddying in that quarter, accompanied by\nnoises that began to compete with the music. Then Penrod allowed himself\nto be shoved out among the circling dancers, so that he collided with\nMarjorie and Maurice Levy, almost oversetting them.\n\nHe made a mock bow and a mock apology, being inspired to invent a jargon\nphrase.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" he said, at the same time making vocal his own conception\nof a taunting laugh. \"Excuse me, but I must 'a' got your bumpus!\"\n\nMarjorie looked grieved and turned away with Maurice; but the boys in\nthe doorway squealed with maniac laughter.\n\n\"Gotcher bumpus! Gotcher bumpus!\" they shrilled. And they began to push\nothers of their number against the dancing couples, shouting, \"'Scuse\nme! Gotcher bumpus!\"\n\nIt became a contagion and then a game. As the dances went on, strings\nof boys, led by Penrod, pursued one another across the rooms, howling,\n\"Gotcher bumpus!\" at the top of their lungs. They dodged and ducked,\nand seized upon dancers as shields; they caromed from one couple into\nanother, and even into the musicians of the orchestra. Boys who were\ndancing abandoned their partners and joined the marauders, shrieking,\n\"Gotcher bumpus!\" Potted plants went down; a slender gilt chair refused\nto support the hurled body of Master Roderick Magsworth Bitts, and the\nsound of splintering wood mingled with other sounds. Dancing became\nimpossible; Miss Amy Rennsdale wept in the midst of the riot, and\neverybody knew that Penrod Schofield had \"started it\".\n\nUnder instructions, the leader of the orchestra, clapping his hands for\nattention, stepped to the centre of the drawing-room, and shouted,\n\n\"A moment silence, if you bleace!\"\n\nSlowly the hubbub ceased; the virtuous and the wicked paused alike in\ntheir courses to listen. Miss Amy Rennsdale was borne away to have her\ntearful face washed, and Marjorie Jones and Carlie Chitten and Georgie\nBassett came forward consciously, escorted by Miss Lowe. The musician\nwaited until the return of the small hostess; then he announced in a\nloud voice:\n\n\"A fency dence called 'Les Papillons', denced by Miss Amy Rennstul, Miss\nChones, Mister Chorch Passett, ant Mister Jitten. Some young chentlemen\nhaf mate so much noise ant confoosion Miss Lowe wish me to ask bleace no\nmore such a nonsense. Fency dence, 'Les Papillons'.\"\n\nThereupon, after formal salutations, Mr. Chitten took Marjorie's hand,\nGeorgie Bassett took Miss Rennsdale's, and they proceeded to dance \"Les\nPapillons\" in a manner that made up in conscientiousness whatever it\nmay have lacked in abandon. The outlaw leader looked on, smiling a\nsmile intended to represent careless contempt, but in reality he was\nunpleasantly surprised. A fancy dance by Georgie Bassett and Baby\nRennsdale was customary at every party attended by members of the\nFriday Afternoon Dancing Class; but Marjorie and Carlie Chitten were new\nperformers, and Penrod had not heard that they had learned to dance \"Les\nPapillons\" together. He was the further embittered.\n\nCarlie made a false step, recovering himself with some difficulty,\nwhereupon a loud, jeering squawk of laughter was heard from the\ninsurgent cluster, which had been awed to temporary quiet but still\nmaintained its base in the drawing-room doorway. There was a general\n\"SH!\" followed by a shocked whispering, as well as a general turning of\neyes toward Penrod. But it was not Penrod who had laughed, though no\none would have credited him with an alibi. The laughter came from two\nthroats that breathed as one with such perfect simultaneousness that\nonly one was credited with the disturbance. These two throats belonged\nrespectively to Samuel Williams and Maurice Levy, who were standing in a\nstrikingly Rosencrantz-and-Guildenstern attitude.\n\n\"He got me with his ole tin-box needle, too,\" Maurice muttered to Sam.\n\"He was goin' to do it to Marjorie, and I told her to look out, and he\nsays, 'Here, YOU take it!' all of a sudden, and he stuck it in my hand\nso quick I never thought. And then, BIM! his ole needle shot out and\nperty near went through my thumb-bone or sumpthing. He'll be sorry\nbefore this day's over!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Sam darkly, \"he's goin' to be sorry he stuck ME, anyway!\"\nNeither Sam nor Maurice had even the vaguest plan for causing the\ndesired regret in the breast of Master Chitten; but both derived a\nlittle consolation from these prophecies. And they, too, had aligned\nthemselves with the insurgents. Their motives were personal--Carlie\nChitten had wronged both of them, and Carlie was conspicuously in high\nfavour with the Authorities. Naturally Sam and Maurice were against the\nAuthorities.\n\n\"Les Papillons\" came to a conclusion. Carlie and Georgie bowed; Marjorie\nJones and Baby Rennsdale curtesied, and there was loud applause. In\nfact, the demonstration became so uproarious that some measure of it was\nopen to suspicion, especially as hisses of reptilian venomousness were\ncommingled with it, and also a hoarse but vociferous repetition of\nthe dastard words, \"Carrie dances ROTTEN!\" Again it was the work of\nRosencrantz and Guildenstern; but the plot was attributed to another.\n\n\"SHAME, Penrod Schofield!\" said both the aunts Rennsdale publicly, and\nPenrod, wholly innocent, became scarlet with indignant mortification.\nCarlie Chitten himself, however, marked the true offenders. A slight\nflush tinted his cheeks, and then, in his quiet, self-contained way, he\nslipped through the crowd of girls and boys, unnoticed, into the\nhall, and ran noiselessly up the stairs and into the \"gentlemen's\ndressing-room\", now inhabited only by hats, caps, overcoats, and the\ntemporarily discarded shoes of the dancers. Most of the shoes stood in\nrows against the wall, and Carlie examined these rows attentively, after\na time discovering a pair of shoes with patent leather tips. He knew\nthem; they belonged to Maurice Levy, and, picking them up, he went to\na corner of the room where four shoes had been left together under\na chair. Upon the chair were overcoats and caps that he was able to\nidentify as the property of Penrod Schofield and Samuel Williams; but,\nas he was not sure which pair of shoes belonged to Penrod and which\nto Sam, he added both pairs to Maurice's and carried them into the\nbathroom. Here he set the plug in the tub, turned the faucets, and,\nafter looking about him and discovering large supplies of all sorts in a\nwall cabinet, he tossed six cakes of green soap into the tub. He let\nthe soap remain in the water to soften a little, and, returning to the\ndressing room, whiled away the time in mixing and mismating pairs of\nshoes along the walls, and also in tying the strings of the mismated\nshoes together in hard knots.\n\nThroughout all this, his expression was grave and intent; his bright\neyes grew brighter, but he did not smile. Carlie Chitten was a singular\nboy, though not unique: he was an \"only child\", lived at a hotel, and\nfound life there favourable to the development of certain peculiarities\nin his nature. He played a lone hand, and with what precocious diplomacy\nhe played that curious hand was attested by the fact that Carlie was\nbrilliantly esteemed by parents and guardians in general.\n\nIt must be said for Carlie that, in one way, his nature was liberal.\nFor instance, having come upstairs to prepare a vengeance upon Sam and\nMaurice in return for their slurs upon his dancing, he did not confine\nhis efforts to the belongings of those two alone. He provided every boy\nin the house with something to think about later, when shoes should be\nresumed; and he was far from stopping at that. Casting about him for\nsome material that he desired, he opened a door of the dressing-room\nand found himself confronting the apartment of Miss Lowe. Upon a desk he\nbeheld the bottle of mucilage he wanted, and, having taken possession of\nit, he allowed his eye the privilege of a rapid glance into a dressing\ntable drawer, accidentally left open.\n\nHe returned to the dressing-room, five seconds later, carrying not only\nthe mucilage but a \"switch\" worn by Miss Lowe when her hair was dressed\nin a fashion different from that which she had favoured for the party.\nThis \"switch\" he placed in the pocket of a juvenile overcoat unknown to\nhim, and then he took the mucilage into the bathroom. There he rescued\nfrom the water the six cakes of soap, placed one in each of the six\nshoes, pounding it down securely into the toe of the shoe with the\nhandle of a back brush. After that, Carlie poured mucilage into all six\nshoes impartially until the bottle was empty, then took them back to\ntheir former positions in the dressing-room. Finally, with careful\nforethought, he placed his own shoes in the pockets of his overcoat, and\nleft the overcoat and his cap upon a chair near the outer door of the\nroom. Then he went quietly downstairs, having been absent from\nthe festivities a little less than twelve minutes. He had been\nenergetic--only a boy could have accomplished so much in so short a\ntime. In fact, Carlie had been so busy that his forgetting to turn off\nthe faucets in the bathroom is not at all surprising.\n\nNo one had noticed his absence. That infectious pastime, \"Gotcher\nbumpus\", had broken out again, and the general dancing, which had been\nresumed upon the conclusion of \"Les Papillons\", was once more becoming\ndemoralized. Despairingly the aunts Rennsdale and Miss Lowe brought\nforth from the rear of the house a couple of waiters and commanded them\nto arrest the ringleaders, whereupon hilarious terror spread among\nthe outlaw band. Shouting tauntingly at their pursuers, they fled--and\nbellowing, trampling flight swept through every quarter of the house.\n\nRefreshments quelled this outbreak for a time. The orchestra played\na march; Carlie Chitten and Georgie Bassett, with Amy Rennsdale and\nMarjorie, formed the head of a procession, while all the boys who had\nretained their sense of decorum immediately sought partners and fell in\nbehind. The outlaws, succumbing to ice cream hunger, followed suit,\none after the other, until all of the girls were provided with escorts.\nThen, to the moral strains of \"The Stars and Stripes Forever\", the\nchildren paraded out to the dining-room. Two and two they marched,\nexcept at the extreme tail end of the line, where, since there were\nthree more boys than girls at the party, the three left-over boys were\nplaced. These three were also the last three outlaws to succumb and\nreturn to civilization from outlying portions of the house after the\npursuit by waiters. They were Messieurs Maurice Levy, Samuel Williams,\nand Penrod Schofield.\n\nThey took their chairs in the capacious dining-room quietly enough,\nthough their expressions were eloquent of bravado, and they jostled one\nanother and their neighbours intentionally, even in the act of sitting.\nHowever, it was not long before delectable foods engaged their whole\nattention and Miss Amy Rennsdale's party relapsed into etiquette for\nthe following twenty minutes. The refection concluded with the mild\nexplosion of paper \"crackers\" that erupted bright-coloured, fantastic\nheadgear, and, during the snapping of the \"crackers\", Penrod heard the\nvoice of Marjorie calling from somewhere behind him, \"Carrie and Amy,\nwill you change chairs with Georgie Bassett and me--just for fun?\" The\nchairs had been placed in rows, back to back, and Penrod would not\neven turn his head to see if Master Chitten and Miss Rennsdale accepted\nMarjorie's proposal, though they were directly behind him and Sam; but\nhe grew red and breathed hard. A moment later, the liberty-cap that he\nhad set upon his head was softly removed, and a little crown of silver\npaper put in its place.\n\n\"PENROD?\"\n\nThe whisper was close to his ear, and a gentle breath cooled the back of\nhis neck.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV. THE HEART OF MARJORIE JONES\n\n\"Well, what you want?\" Penrod asked, brusquely.\n\nMarjorie's wonderful eyes were dark and mysterious, like still water at\ntwilight.\n\n\"What makes you behave so AWFUL?\" she whispered.\n\n\"I don't either! I guess I got a right to do the way I want to, haven't\nI?\"\n\n\"Well, anyway,\" said Marjorie, \"you ought to quit bumping into people so\nit hurts.\"\n\n\"Poh! It wouldn't hurt a fly!\"\n\n\"Yes, it did. It hurt when you bumped Maurice and me that time.\"\n\n\"It didn't either. WHERE'D it hurt you? Let's see if it--\"\n\n\"Well, I can't show you, but it did. Penrod, are you going to keep on?\"\n\nPenrod's heart had melted within him; but his reply was pompous and\ncold. \"I will if I feel like it, and I won't if I feel like it. You wait\nand see.\"\n\nBut Marjorie jumped up and ran around to him abandoning her escort.\nAll the children were leaving their chairs and moving toward the\ndancing-rooms; the orchestra was playing dance-music again.\n\n\"Come on, Penrod!\" Marjorie cried. \"Let's go dance this together. Come\non!\"\n\nWith seeming reluctance, he suffered her to lead him away. \"Well, I'll\ngo with you; but I won't dance,\" he said \"I wouldn't dance with the\nPresident of the United States\"\n\n\"Why, Penrod?\"\n\n\"Well--because well, I won't DO it!\"\n\n\"All right. I don't care. I guess I've danced plenty, anyhow. Let's go\nin here.\" She led him into a room too small for dancing, used ordinarily\nby Miss Amy Rennsdale's father as his study, and now vacant. For a while\nthere was silence; but finally Marjorie pointed to the window and said\nshyly:\n\n\"Look, Penrod, it's getting dark. The party'll be over pretty soon, and\nyou've never danced one single time!\"\n\n\"Well, I guess I know that, don't I?\"\n\nHe was unable to cast aside his outward truculence though it was but a\nrelic. However, his voice was gentler, and Marjorie seemed satisfied.\nFrom the other rooms came the swinging music, shouts of \"Gotcher\nbumpus!\" sounds of stumbling, of scrambling, of running, of muffled\nconcus signs and squeals of dismay. Penrod's followers were renewing the\nwild work, even in the absence of their chief.\n\n\"Penrod Schofield, you bad boy,\" said Marjorie, \"you started every bit\nof that! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.\"\n\n\"_I_ didn't do anything,\" he said--and he believed it. \"Pick on me for\neverything!\"\n\n\"Well, they wouldn't if you didn't do so much,\" said Marjorie.\n\n\"They would, too.\"\n\n\"They wouldn't, either. Who would?\"\n\n\"That Miss Lowe,\" he specified bitterly. \"Yes, and Baby Rennsdale's\naunts. If the house'd burn down, I bet they'd say Penrod Schofield did\nit! Anybody does anything at ALL, they say, 'Penrod Schofield, shame on\nyou!' When you and Carlie were dan--\"\n\n\"Penrod, I just hate that little Carlie Chitten. P'fesser Bartet made me\nlearn that dance with him; but I just hate him.\"\n\nPenrod was now almost completely mollified; nevertheless, he continued\nto set forth his grievance. \"Well, they all turned around to me and they\nsaid, 'Why, Penrod Schofield, shame on you!' And I hadn't done a single\nthing! I was just standin' there. They got to blame ME, though!\"\n\nMarjorie laughed airily. \"Well, if you aren't the foolishest--\"\n\n\"They would, too,\" he asserted, with renewed bitterness. \"If the house\nwas to fall down, you'd see! They'd all say--\"\n\nMarjorie interrupted him. She put her hand on the top of her head,\nlooking a little startled.\n\n\"What's that?\" she said.\n\n\"What's what?\"\n\n\"Like rain!\" Marjorie cried. \"Like it was raining in here! A drop fell\non my--\"\n\n\"Why, it couldn't--\" he began. But at this instant a drop fell upon his\nhead, too, and, looking up, they beheld a great oozing splotch upon the\nceiling. Drops were gathering upon it and falling; the tinted plaster\nwas cracking, and a little stream began to patter down and splash upon\nthe floor. Then there came a resounding thump upstairs, just above them,\nand fragments of wet plaster fell.\n\n\"The roof must be leaking,\" said Marjorie, beginning to be alarmed.\n\n\"Couldn't be the roof,\" said Penrod. \"Besides there ain't any rain\noutdoors.\"\n\nAs he spoke, a second slender stream of water began to patter upon the\nfloor of the hall outside the door.\n\n\"Good gracious!\" Marjorie cried, while the ceiling above them shook as\nwith earthquake--or as with boys in numbers jumping, and a great uproar\nburst forth overhead.\n\n\"I believe the house IS falling down, Penrod!\" she quavered.\n\n\"Well, they'll blame ME for it!\" he said. \"Anyways, we better get out o'\nhere. I guess sumpthing must be the matter.\"\n\nHis guess was accurate, so far as it went. The dance-music had swung\ninto \"Home Sweet Home\" some time before, the children were preparing\nto leave, and Master Chitten had been the first boy to ascend to the\ngentlemen's dressing-room for his cap, overcoat and shoes, his\nmotive being to avoid by departure any difficulty in case his earlier\nactivities should cause him to be suspected by the other boys. But in\nthe doorway he halted, aghast.\n\nThe lights had not been turned on; but even the dim windows showed\nthat the polished floor gave back reflections no floor-polish had ever\nequalled. It was a gently steaming lake, from an eighth to a quarter of\nan inch deep. And Carlie realized that he had forgotten to turn off the\nfaucets in the bathroom.\n\nFor a moment, his savoir faire deserted him, and he was filled with\nordinary, human-boy panic. Then, at a sound of voices behind him, he\nlost his head and rushed into the bathroom. It was dark, but certain\nsensations and the splashing of his pumps warned him that the water was\ndeeper in there. The next instant the lights were switched on in both\nbathroom and dressing-room, and Carlie beheld Sam Williams in the\ndoorway of the former.\n\n\"Oh, look, Maurice!\" Sam shouted, in frantic excitement. \"Somebody's\nlet the tub run over, and it's about ten feet deep! Carlie Chitten's\nsloshin' around in here. Let's hold the door on him and keep him in!\"\n\nCarlie rushed to prevent the execution of this project; but he slipped\nand went swishing full length along the floor, creating a little surf\nbefore him as he slid, to the demoniac happiness of Sam and Maurice.\nThey closed the door, however, and, as other boys rushed, shouting and\nsplashing, into the flooded dressing-room, Carlie began to hammer upon\nthe panels. Then the owners of shoes, striving to rescue them from the\nincreasing waters, made discoveries.\n\n\nThe most dangerous time to give a large children's party is when\nthere has not been one for a long period. The Rennsdale party had that\nmisfortune, and its climax was the complete and convulsive madness of\nthe gentlemen's dressing-room during those final moments supposed to be\ngiven to quiet preparations, on the part of guests, for departure.\n\nIn the upper hall and upon the stairway, panic-stricken little girls\nlistened, wild-eyed, to the uproar that went on, while waiters and maid\nservants rushed with pails and towels into what was essentially the\nworst ward in Bedlam. Boys who had behaved properly all afternoon now\ngave way and joined the confraternity of lunatics. The floors of the\nhouse shook to tramplings, rushes, wrestlings, falls and collisions. The\nwalls resounded to chorused bellowings and roars. There were pipings\nof pain and pipings of joy; there was whistling to pierce the drums of\nears; there were hootings and howlings and bleatings and screechings,\nwhile over all bleated the heathen battle-cry incessantly: \"GOTCHER\nBUMPUS! GOTCHER BUMPUS!\" For the boys had been inspired by the unusual\nwater to transform Penrod's game of \"Gotcher bumpus\" into an aquatic\nsport, and to induce one another, by means of superior force, dexterity,\nor stratagems, either to sit or to lie at full length in the flood,\nafter the example of Carlie Chitten.\n\nOne of the aunts Rennsdale had taken what charge she could of the\ndeafened and distracted maids and waiters who were working to stem the\ntide, while the other of the aunts Rennsdale stood with her niece\nand Miss Lowe at the foot of the stairs, trying to say good-night\nreassuringly to those of the terrified little girls who were able to\ntear themselves away. This latter aunt Rennsdale marked a dripping\nfigure that came unobtrusively, and yet in a self-contained and\ngentlemanly manner, down the stairs.\n\n\"Carlie Chitten!\" she cried. \"You poor dear child, you're soaking! To\nthink those outrageous little fiends wouldn't even spare YOU!\" As she\nspoke, another departing male guest came from behind Carlie and placed\nin her hand a snakelike article--a thing that Miss Lowe seized and\nconcealed with one sweeping gesture.\n\n\"It's some false hair somebody must of put in my overcoat pocket,\" said\nRoderick Magsworth Bitts. \"Well, 'g-night. Thank you for a very nice\ntime.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Miss Rennsdale,\" said Master Chitten demurely. \"Thank you\nfor a--\"\n\nBut Miss Rennsdale detained him. \"Carrie,\" she said earnestly, \"you're\na dear boy, and I know you'll tell me something. It was all Penrod\nSchofield, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"You mean he left the--\"\n\n\"I mean,\" she said, in a low tone, not altogether devoid of ferocity. \"I\nmean it was Penrod who left the faucets running, and Penrod who tied the\nboys' shoes together, and filled some of them with soap and mucilage,\nand put Miss Lowe's hair in Roddy Bitts's overcoat. No; look me in the\neye, Carlie! They were all shouting that silly thing he started. Didn't\nhe do it?\"\n\nCarlie cast down thoughtful eyes. \"I wouldn't like to tell, Miss\nRennsdale,\" he said. \"I guess I better be going or I'll catch cold.\nThank you for a very nice time.\"\n\n\"There!\" said Miss Rennsdale vehemently, as Carlie went on his way.\n\"What did I tell you? Carlie Chitten's too manly to say it, but I just\nKNOW it was that terrible Penrod Schofield.\"\n\nBehind her, a low voice, unheard by all except the person to whom it\nspoke, repeated a part of this speech: \"What did I tell you?\"\n\nThis voice belonged to one Penrod Schofield.\n\nPenrod and Marjorie had descended by another stairway, and he now\nconsidered it wiser to pass to the rear of the little party at the foot\nof the stairs. As he was still in his pumps, his choked shoes occupying\nhis overcoat pockets, he experienced no difficulty in reaching the front\ndoor, and getting out of it unobserved, although the noise upstairs was\ngreatly abated. Marjorie, however, made her curtseys and farewells in a\ncreditable manner.\n\n\"There!\" Penrod said again, when she rejoined him in the darkness\noutside. \"What did I tell you? Didn't I say I'd get the blame of it,\nno matter if the house went and fell down? I s'pose they think I put\nmucilage and soap in my own shoes.\"\n\nMarjorie delayed at the gate until some eagerly talking little girls had\npassed out. The name \"Penrod Schofield\" was thick and scandalous among\nthem.\n\n\"Well,\" said Marjorie, \"_I_ wouldn't care, Penrod. 'Course, about soap\nand mucilage in YOUR shoes, anybody'd know some other boy must of put\n'em there to get even for what you put in his.\"\n\nPenrod gasped.\n\n\"But I DIDN'T!\" he cried. \"I didn't do ANYTHING! That ole Miss Rennsdale\ncan say what she wants to, I didn't do--\"\n\n\"Well, anyway, Penrod,\" said Marjorie, softly, \"they can't ever PROVE it\nwas you.\"\n\nHe felt himself suffocating in a coil against which no struggle availed.\n\n\"But I never DID it!\" he wailed, helplessly. \"I never did anything at\nall!\"\n\nShe leaned toward him a little, and the lights from her waiting carriage\nillumined her dimly, but enough for him to see that her look was fond\nand proud, yet almost awed.\n\n\"Anyway, Penrod,\" she whispered, \"_I_ don't believe there's any other\nboy in the whole world could of done HALF as much!\"\n\nAnd with that, she left him, and ran out to the carriage.\n\nBut Penrod remained by the gate to wait for Sam, and the burden of his\nsorrows was beginning to lift. In fact, he felt a great deal better, in\nspite of his having just discovered why Marjorie loved him."