Penrod by Booth Tarkington (page 2)

presence of another person.

“Where are you, Penrod?” the parent asked, looking about.

“Here,” said Penrod meekly.

Stooping, Mr. Schofield discovered his son squatting under the piano, near an open window–his wistful Duke lying beside him.

“What are you doing there?”

“Me?”

“Why under the piano?”

“Well,” the boy returned, with grave sweetness, “I was just kind of sitting here–thinking.”

“All right.” Mr. Schofield, rather touched, returned to the digestion of a murder, his back once more to the piano; and Penrod silently drew from beneath his jacket (where he had slipped it simultaneously with the sneeze) a paper-backed volume entitled: “Slimsy, the Sioux City Squealer, or, `Not Guilty, Your Honor.'”

In this manner the reading-club continued in peace, absorbed, contented, the world well forgot–until a sudden, violently irritated slam-bang of the front door startled the members; and Mrs. Schofield burst into the room and threw herself into a chair, moaning.

“What’s the matter, mamma?” asked her husband laying aside his paper.

“Henry Passloe Schofield,” returned the lady, “I don’t know what IS to be done with that boy; I do NOT!”

“You mean Penrod?”

“Who else could I mean?” She sat up, exasperated, to stare at him. “Henry Passloe Schofield, you’ve got to take this matter in your hands–it’s beyond me!”

“Well, what has he—-“

“Last night I got to thinking,” she began rapidly, “about what Clara told us–thank Heaven she and Margaret and little Clara have gone to tea at Cousin Charlotte’s!–but they’ll be home soon–about what she said about Miss Spence—-“

“You mean about Penrod’s being a comfort?”

“Yes, and I kept thinking and thinking and thinking about it till I couldn’t stand it any—-“

“By GEORGE!” shouted Mr. Schofield startlingly, stooping to look under the piano. A statement that he had suddenly remembered his son’s presence would be lacking in accuracy, for the highly sensitized Penrod was, in fact, no longer present. No more was Duke, his faithful dog.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he returned, striding to the open window and looking out. “Go on.”

“Oh,” she moaned, “it must be kept from Clara–and I’ll never hold up my head again if John Farry ever hears of it!”

“Hears of WHAT?”

“Well, I just couldn’t stand it, I got so curious; and I thought of course if Miss Spence HAD become a little unbalanced it was my duty to know it, as Penrod’s mother and she his teacher; so I thought I would just call on her at her apartment after school and have a chat and see and I did and– oh—-“

“Well?”

“I’ve just come from there, and she told me–she told me! Oh, I’ve NEVER known anything like this!”

“WHAT did she tell you?”

Mrs. Schofield, making a great effort, managed to assume a temporary appearance of calm. “Henry,” she said solemnly, “bear this in mind: whatever you do to Penrod, it must be done in some place when Clara won’t hear it. But the first thing to do is to find him.”

Within view of the window from which Mr. Schofield was gazing was the closed door of the storeroom in the stable, and just outside this door Duke was performing a most engaging trick.

His young master had taught Duke to “sit up and beg” when he wanted anything, and if that didn’t get it, to “speak.” Duke was facing the closed door and sitting up and begging, and now he also spoke–in a loud, clear bark.

There was an open transom over the door, and from this descended–hurled by an unseen agency–a can half filled with old paint.

It caught the small besieger of the door on his thoroughly surprised right ear, encouraged him to some remarkable acrobatics, and turned large portions of him a dull blue. Allowing only a moment to perplexity, and deciding, after a single and evidently unappetizing experiment, not to cleanse himself of paint, the loyal animal resumed his quaint, upright posture.

Mr. Schofield seated himself on the window-sill, whence he could keep in view that pathetic picture of unrequited love.

“Go on with your story, mamma,” he said. “I think I can find Penrod when we want him.”

And a few minutes later he added, “And I think I know the place to do it in.”

Again the faithful voice of Duke was heard, pleading outside the bolted door.

CHAPTER XII
MISS RENNSDALE ACCEPTS

“One-two-three; one-two-three–glide!” said Professor Bartet, emphasizing his instructions by a brisk collision of his palms at “glide.” “One-two-three; one-two-three–glide!”

The school week was over, at last, but Penrod’s troubles were not.

Round and round the ballroom went the seventeen struggling little couples of the Friday Afternoon Dancing Class. Round and round went their reflections with them, swimming rhythmically in the polished, dark floor–white and blue and pink for the girls; black, with dabs of white, for the white-collared, white- gloved boys; and sparks and slivers of high light everywhere as the glistening pumps flickered along the surface like a school of flying fish. Every small pink face–with one exception–was painstaking and set for duty. It was a conscientious little merry-go-round.

“One-two-three; one-two-three–glide! One-two-three; one- two-three–glide! One-two-th–Ha! Mister Penrod Schofield, you lose the step. Your left foot! No, no! This is the left! See–like me! Now again! One-two-three; one-two-three–glide! Better! Much better! Again! One-two-three; one-two-three–gl– Stop! Mr. Penrod Schofield, this dancing class is provided by the kind parents of the pupilses as much to learn the mannerss of good societies as to dance. You think you shall ever see a gentleman in good societies to tickle his partner in the dance till she say Ouch? Never! I assure you it is not done. Again! Now then! Piano, please! One-two-three; one-two-three–glide! Mr. Penrod Schofield, your right foot–your right foot! No, no! Stop!”

The merry-go-round came to a standstill.

“Mr. Penrod Schofield and partner”–Professor Bartet wiped his brow–“will you kindly observe me? One-two-three–glide! So! Now then–no; you will please keep your places, ladies and gentlemen. Mr. Penrod Schofield, I would puttickly like your attention, this is for you!”

“Pickin’ on me again!” murmured the smouldering Penrod to his small, unsympathetic partner. “Can’t let me alone a minute!”

“Mister Georgie Bassett, please step to the centre,” said the professor.

Mr. Bassett complied with modest alacrity.

“Teacher’s pet!” whispered Penrod hoarsely. He had nothing but contempt for Georgie Bassett. The parents, guardians, aunts, uncles, cousins, governesses, housemaids, cooks, chauffeurs and coachmen, appertaining to the members of the dancing class, all dwelt in the same part of town and shared certain communal theories; and among the most firmly established was that which maintained Georgie Bassett to be the Best Boy in Town. Contrariwise, the unfortunate Penrod, largely because of his recent dazzling but disastrous attempts to control forces far beyond him, had been given a clear title as the Worst Boy in Town. (Population, 135,000.) To precisely what degree his reputation was the product of his own energies cannot be calculated. It was Marjorie Jones who first applied the description, in its definite simplicity, the day after the “pageant,” and, possibly, her frequent and effusive repetitions of it, even upon wholly irrelevant occasions, had something to do with its prompt and quite perfect acceptance by the community.

“Miss Rennsdale will please do me the fafer to be Mr. Georgie Bassett’s partner for one moment,” said Professor Bartet. “Mr. Penrod Schofield will please give his attention. Miss Rennsdale and Mister Bassett, obliche me, if you please. Others please watch. Piano, please! Now then!”

Miss Rennsdale, aged eight–the youngest lady in the class– and Mr. Georgie Bassett one-two-three–glided with consummate technique for the better education of Penrod Schofield. It is possible that amber-curled, beautiful Marjorie felt that she, rather than Miss Rennsdale, might have been selected as the example of perfection–or perhaps her remark was only woman.

“Stopping everybody for that boy!” said Marjorie.

Penrod, across the circle from her, heard distinctly–nay, he was obviously intended to hear; but over a scorched heart he preserved a stoic front. Whereupon Marjorie whispered derisively in the ear of her partner, Maurice Levy, who wore a pearl pin in his tie.

“Again, please, everybody–ladies and gentlemen!” cried Professor Bartet. “Mister Penrod Schofield, if you please, pay puttickly attention! Piano, please! Now then!”

The lesson proceeded. At the close of the hour Professor Bartet stepped to the centre of the room and clapped his hands for attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you please to seat yourselves quietly,” he said; “I speak to you now about to-morrow. As you all know–Mister Penrod Schofield, I am not sticking up in a tree outside that window! If you do me the fafer to examine I am here, insides of the room. Now then! Piano, pl–no, I do not wish the piano! As you all know, this is the last lesson of the season until next October. Tomorrow is our special afternoon; beginning three o’clock, we dance the cotillon. But this afternoon comes the test of mannerss. You must see if each know how to make a little formal call like a grown-up people in good societies. You have had good, perfect instruction; let us see if we know how to perform like societies ladies and gentlemen twenty-six years of age.

“Now, when you’re dismissed each lady will go to her home and prepare to receive a call. The gentlemen will allow the ladies time to reach their houses and to prepare to receive callers; then each gentleman will call upon a lady and beg the pleasure to engage her for a partner in the cotillon to-morrow. You all know the correct, proper form for these calls, because didn’t I work teaching you last lesson till I thought I would drop dead? Yes! Now each gentleman, if he reach a lady’s house behind some-other gentleman, then he must go somewhere else to a lady’s house, and keep calling until he secures a partner; so, as there are the same number of both, everybody shall have a partner.

“Now please all remember that if in case–Mister Penrod Schofield, when you make your call on a lady I beg you to please remember that gentlemen in good societies do not scratch the back in societies as you appear to attempt; so please allow the hands to rest carelessly in the lap. Now please all remember that if in case–Mister Penrod Schofield, if you please! Gentlemen in societies do not scratch the back by causing frictions between it and the back of your chair, either! Nobody else is itching here! _I_ do not itch! I cannot talk if you must itch! In the name of Heaven, why must you always itch? What was I saying? Where ah! the cotillon–yes! For the cotillon it is important nobody shall fail to be here tomorrow; but if any one should be so very ill he cannot possible come he must write a very polite note of regrets in the form of good societies to his engaged partner to excuse himself–and he must give the reason.

“I do not think anybody is going to be that sick to-morrow– no; and I will find out and report to parents if anybody would try it and not be. But it is important for the cotillon that we have an even number of so many couples, and if it should happen that someone comes and her partner has sent her a polite note that he has genuine reasons why he cannot come, the note must be handed at once to me, so that I arrange some other partner. Is all understood? Yes. The gentlemen will remember now to allow the ladies plenty of time to reach their houses and prepare to receive calls. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your polite attention.”

It was nine blocks to the house of Marjorie Jones; but Penrod did it in less than seven minutes from a flying start–such was his haste to lay himself and his hand for the cotillon at the feet of one who had so recently spoken unamiably of him in public. He had not yet learned that the only safe male rebuke to a scornful female is to stay away from her–especially if that is what she desires. However, he did not wish to rebuke her; simply and ardently he wished to dance the cotillon with her. Resentment was swallowed up in hope.

The fact that Miss Jones’ feeling for him bore a striking resemblance to that of Simon Legree for Uncle Tom, deterred him not at all. Naturally, he was not wholly unconscious that when he should lay his hand for the cotillon at her feet it would be her inward desire to step on it; but he believed that if he were first in the field Marjorie would have to accept. These things are governed by law.

It was his fond intention to reach her house even in advance of herself, and with grave misgiving he beheld a large automobile at rest before the sainted gate. Forthwith, a sinking feeling became a portent inside him as little Maurice Levy emerged from the front door of the house.

“‘Lo, Penrod!” said Maurice airily.

“What you doin’ in there?” inquired Penrod.

“In where?”

“In Marjorie’s.”

“Well, what shouldn’t I be doin’ in Marjorie’s?” Mr. Levy returned indignantly. “I was inviting her for my partner in the cotillon–what you s’pose?”

“You haven’t got any right to!” Penrod protested hotly. “You can’t do it yet.”

“I did do it yet!” said Maurice.

“You can’t!” insisted Penrod. “You got to allow them time first. He said the ladies had to be allowed time to prepare.”

“Well, ain’t she had time to prepare?”

“When?” Penrod demanded, stepping close to his rival threateningly. “I’d like to know when—-“

“When?” echoed the other with shrill triumph. “When? Why, in mamma’s sixty-horse powder limousine automobile, what Marjorie came home with me in! I guess that’s when!”

An impulse in the direction of violence became visible upon the countenance of Penrod.

“I expect you need some wiping down,” he began dangerously. “I’ll give you sumpthing to remem—-“

“Oh, you will!” Maurice cried with astonishing truculence, contorting himself into what he may have considered a posture of defense. “Let’s see you try it, you–you itcher!”

For the moment, defiance from such a source was dumfounding. Then, luckily, Penrod recollected something and glanced at the automobile.

Perceiving therein not only the alert chauffeur but the magnificent outlines of Mrs. Levy, his enemy’s mother, he manoeuvred his lifted hand so that it seemed he had but meant to scratch his ear.

“Well, I guess I better be goin’,” he said casually. “See you tomorrow!”

Maurice mounted to the lap of luxury, and Penrod strolled away with an assumption of careless ease which was put to a severe strain when, from the rear window of the car, a sudden protuberance in the nature of a small, dark, curly head shrieked scornfully:

“Go on–you big stiff!”

The cotillon loomed dismally before Penrod now; but it was his duty to secure a partner and he set about it with a dreary heart. The delay occasioned by his fruitless attempt on Marjorie and the altercation with his enemy at her gate had allowed other ladies ample time to prepare for callers–and to receive them. Sadly he went from house to house, finding that he had been preceded in one after the other. Altogether his hand for the cotillon was declined eleven times that afternoon on the legitimate ground of previous engagement. This, with Marjorie, scored off all except five of the seventeen possible partners; and four of the five were also sealed away from him, as he learned in chance encounters with other boys upon the street.

One lady alone remained; he bowed to the inevitable and entered this lorn damsel’s gate at twilight with an air of great discouragement. The lorn damsel was Miss Rennsdale, aged eight.

We are apt to forget that there are actually times of life when too much youth is a handicap. Miss Rennsdale was beautiful; she danced like a premiere; she had every charm but age. On that account alone had she been allowed so much time to prepare to receive callers that it was only by the most manful efforts she could keep her lip from trembling.

A decorous maid conducted the long-belated applicant to her where she sat upon a sofa beside a nursery governess. The decorous maid announced him composedly as he made his entrance.

“Mr. Penrod Schofield!”

Miss Rennsdale suddenly burst into loud sobs.

“Oh!” she wailed. “I just knew it would be him!”

The decorous maid’s composure vanished at once–likewise her decorum. She clapped her hand over her mouth and fled, uttering sounds. The governess, however, set herself to comfort her heartbroken charge, and presently succeeded in restoring Miss Rennsdale to a semblance of that poise with which a lady receives callers and accepts invitations to dance cotillons. But she continued to sob at intervals.

Feeling himself at perhaps a disadvantage, Penrod made offer of his hand for the morrow with a little embarrassment. Following the form prescribed by Professor Bartet, he advanced several paces toward the stricken lady and bowed formally.

“I hope,” he said by rote, “you’re well, and your parents also in good health. May I have the pleasure of dancing the cotillon as your partner t’-morrow afternoon?”

The wet eyes of Miss Rennsdale searched his countenance without pleasure, and a shudder wrung her small shoulders; but the governess whispered to her instructively, and she made a great effort.

“I thu-thank you fu-for your polite invu-invu-invutation; and I ac—-” Thus far she progressed when emotion overcame her again. She beat frantically upon the sofa with fists and heels. “Oh, I DID want it to be Georgie Bassett!”

“No, no, no!” said the governess, and whispered urgently, whereupon Miss Rennsdale was able to complete her acceptance.

“And I ac-accept wu-with pu-pleasure!” she moaned, and immediately, uttering a loud yell, flung herself face downward upon the sofa, clutching her governess convulsively.

Somewhat disconcerted, Penrod bowed again.

“I thank you for your polite acceptance,” he murmured hurriedly; “and I trust–I trust–I forget. Oh, yes–I trust we shall have a most enjoyable occasion. Pray present my compliments to your parents; and I must now wish you a very good afternoon.”

Concluding these courtly demonstrations with another bow he withdrew in fair order, though thrown into partial confusion in the hall by a final wail from his crushed hostess:

“Oh! Why couldn’t it be anybody but HIM!”

CHAPTER XIII
THE SMALLPOX MEDICINE

Next morning Penrod woke in profound depression of spirit, the cotillon ominous before him. He pictured Marjorie Jones and Maurice, graceful and light-hearted, flitting by him fairylike, loosing silvery laughter upon him as he engaged in the struggle to keep step with a partner about four years and two feet his junior. It was hard enough for Penrod to keep step with a girl of his size.

The foreboding vision remained with him, increasing in vividness, throughout the forenoon. He found himself unable to fix his mind upon anything else, and, having bent his gloomy footsteps toward the sawdust-box, after breakfast, presently descended therefrom, abandoning Harold Ramorez where he had left him the preceding Saturday. Then, as he sat communing silently with wistful Duke, in the storeroom, coquettish fortune looked his way.

It was the habit of Penrod’s mother not to throw away anything whatsoever until years of storage conclusively proved there would never be a use for it; but a recent house-cleaning had ejected upon the back porch a great quantity of bottles and other paraphernalia of medicine, left over from illnesses in the family during a period of several years. This debris Della, the cook, had collected in a large market basket, adding to it some bottles of flavouring extracts that had proved unpopular in the household; also, old catsup bottles; a jar or two of preserves gone bad; various rejected dental liquids–and other things. And she carried the basket out to the storeroom in the stable.

Penrod was at first unaware of what lay before him. Chin on palms, he sat upon the iron rim of a former aquarium and stared morbidly through the open door at the checkered departing back of Della. It was another who saw treasure in the basket she had left.

Mr. Samuel Williams, aged eleven, and congenial to Penrod in years, sex, and disposition, appeared in the doorway, shaking into foam a black liquid within a pint bottle, stoppered by a thumb.

“Yay, Penrod!” the visitor gave greeting.

“Yay,” said Penrod with slight enthusiasm. “What you got?”

“Lickrish water.”

“Drinkin’s!” demanded Penrod promptly. This is equivalent to the cry of “Biters” when an apple is shown, and establishes unquestionable title.

“Down to there!” stipulated Sam, removing his thumb to affix it firmly as a mark upon the side of the bottle a check upon gormandizing that remained carefully in place while Penrod drank.

This rite concluded, the visitor’s eye fell upon the basket deposited by Della. He emitted tokens of pleasure.

“Looky! Looky! Looky there! That ain’t any good pile o’ stuff–oh, no!”

“What for?”

“Drug store!” shouted Sam. “We’ll be partners—-“

“Or else,” Penrod suggested, “I’ll run the drug store and you be a customer—-“

“No! Partners!” insisted Sam with such conviction that his host yielded; and within ten minutes the drug store was doing a heavy business with imaginary patrons. Improvising counters with boards and boxes, and setting forth a very druggish-looking stock from the basket, each of the partners found occupation to his taste–Penrod as salesman and Sam as prescription clerk.

“Here you are, madam!” said Penrod briskly, offering a vial of Sam’s mixing to an invisible matron. “This will cure your husband in a few minutes. Here’s the camphor, mister. Call again! Fifty cents’ worth of pills? Yes, madam. There you are! Hurry up with that dose for the nigger lady, Bill!”

“I’ll ‘tend to it soon’s I get time, Jim,” replied the prescription clerk. “I’m busy fixin’ the smallpox medicine for the sick policeman downtown.”

Penrod stopped sales to watch this operation. Sam had found an empty pint bottle and, with the pursed lips and measuring eye of a great chemist, was engaged in filling it from other bottles.

First, he poured into it some of the syrup from the condemned preserves; and a quantity of extinct hair oil; next the remaining contents of a dozen small vials cryptically labelled with physicians’ prescriptions; then some remnants of catsup and essence of beef and what was left in several bottles of mouthwash; after that a quantity of rejected flavouring extract– topping off by shaking into the mouth of the bottle various powders from small pink papers, relics of Mr. Schofield’s influenza of the preceding winter.

Sam examined the combination with concern, appearing unsatisfied. “We got to make that smallpox medicine good and strong!” he remarked; and, his artistic sense growing more powerful than his appetite, he poured about a quarter of the licorice water into the smallpox medicine.

“What you doin’?” protested Penrod. “What you want to waste that lickrish water for? We ought to keep it to drink when we’re tired.”

“I guess I got a right to use my own lickrish water any way I want to,” replied the prescription clerk. “I tell you, you can’t get smallpox medicine too strong. Look at her now!” He held the bottle up admiringly. “She’s as black as lickrish. I bet you she’s strong all right!”

“I wonder how she tastes?” said Penrod thoughtfully.

“Don’t smell so awful much,” observed Sam, sniffing the bottle–“a good deal, though!”

“I wonder if it’d make us sick to drink it?” said Penrod.

Sam looked at the bottle thoughtfully; then his eye, wandering, fell upon Duke, placidly curled up near the door, and lighted with the advent of an idea new to him, but old, old in the world–older than Egypt!

“Let’s give Duke some!” he cried.

That was the spark. They acted immediately; and a minute later Duke, released from custody with a competent potion of the smallpox medicine inside him, settled conclusively their doubts concerning its effect. The patient animal, accustomed to expect the worst at all times, walked out of the door, shaking his head with an air of considerable annoyance, opening and closing his mouth with singular energy–and so repeatedly that they began to count the number of times he did it. Sam thought it was thirty-nine times, but Penrod had counted forty-one before other and more striking symptoms appeared.

All things come from Mother Earth and must return–Duke restored much at this time. Afterward, he ate heartily of grass; and then, over his shoulder, he bent upon his master one inscrutable look and departed feebly to the front yard.

The two boys had watched the process with warm interest. “I told you she was strong!” said Mr. Williams proudly.

“Yes, sir–she is!” Penrod was generous enough to admit. “I expect she’s strong enough—-” He paused in thought, and added:

“We haven’t got a horse any more.”

“I bet you she’d fix him if you had!” said Sam. And it may be that this was no idle boast.

The pharmaceutical game was not resumed; the experiment upon Duke had made the drug store commonplace and stimulated the appetite for stronger meat. Lounging in the doorway, the near- vivisectionists sipped licorice water alternately and conversed.

“I bet some of our smallpox medicine would fix ole P’fessor Bartet all right!” quoth Penrod. “I wish he’d come along and ask us for some.”

“We could tell him it was lickrish water,” added Sam, liking the idea. “The two bottles look almost the same.”

“Then we wouldn’t have to go to his ole cotillon this afternoon,” Penrod sighed. “There wouldn’t be any!”

“Who’s your partner, Pen?”

“Who’s yours?”

“Who’s yours? I just ast you.”

“Oh, she’s all right!” And Penrod smiled boastfully.

“I bet you wanted to dance with Marjorie!” said his friend.

“Me? I wouldn’t dance with that girl if she begged me to! I wouldn’t dance with her to save her from drowning! I wouldn’t da—-“

“Oh, no–you wouldn’t!” interrupted Mr. Williams skeptically.

Penrod changed his tone and became persuasive.

“Looky here, Sam,” he said confidentially. “I’ve got ‘a mighty nice partner, but my mother don’t like her mother; and so I’ve been thinking I better not dance with her. I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ve got a mighty good sling in the house, and I’ll give it to you if you’ll change partners.”

“You want to change and you don’t even know who mine is!” said Sam, and he made the simple though precocious deduction: “Yours must be a lala! Well, I invited Mabel Rorebeck, and she wouldn’t let me change if I wanted to. Mabel Rorebeck’d rather dance with me,” he continued serenely, “than anybody; and she said she was awful afraid you’d ast her. But I ain’t goin’ to dance with Mabel after all, because this morning she sent me a note about her uncle died last night–and P’fessor Bartet’ll have to find me a partner after I get there. Anyway I bet you haven’t got any sling–and I bet your partner’s Baby Rennsdale!”

“What if she is?” said Penrod. “She’s good enough for ME!” This speech held not so much modesty in solution as intended praise of the lady. Taken literally, however, it was an understatement of the facts and wholly insincere.

“Yay!” jeered Mr. Williams, upon whom his friend’s hypocrisy was quite wasted. “How can your mother not like her mother? Baby Rennsdale hasn’t got any mother! You and her’ll be a sight!”

That was Penrod’s own conviction; and with this corroboration of it he grew so spiritless that he could offer no retort. He slid to a despondent sitting posture upon the door sill and gazed wretchedly upon the ground, while his companion went to replenish the licorice water at the hydrant–enfeebling the potency of the liquor no doubt, but making up for that in quantity.

“Your mother goin’ with you to the cotillon?” asked Sam when he returned.

“No. She’s goin’ to meet me there. She’s goin’ somewhere first.”

“So’s mine,” said Sam. “I’ll come by for you.”

“All right.”

“I better go before long. Noon whistles been blowin’.”

“All right,” Penrod repeated dully.

Sam turned to go, but paused. A new straw hat was peregrinating along the fence near the two boys. This hat belonged to someone passing upon the sidewalk of the cross- street; and the someone was Maurice Levy. Even as they stared, he halted and regarded them over the fence with two small, dark eyes.

Fate had brought about this moment and this confrontation.

CHAPTER XIV
MAURICE LEVY’S CONSTITUTION

“Lo, Sam!” said Maurice cautiously. “What you doin’?”

Penrod at that instant had a singular experience–an intellectual shock like a flash of fire in the brain. Sitting in darkness, a great light flooded him with wild brilliance. He gasped!

“What you doin’?” repeated Mr. Levy.

Penrod sprang to his feet, seized the licorice bottle, shook it with stoppering thumb, and took a long drink with histrionic unction.

“What you doin’?” asked Maurice for the third time, Sam Williams not having decided upon a reply.

It was Penrod who answered.

“Drinkin’ lickrish water,” he said simply, and wiped his mouth with such delicious enjoyment that Sam’s jaded thirst was instantly stimulated. He took the bottle eagerly from Penrod.

“A-a-h!” exclaimed Penrod, smacking his lips. “That was a good un!”

The eyes above the fence glistened.

“Ask him if he don’t want some,” Penrod whispered urgently. “Quit drinkin’ it! It’s no good any more. Ask him!”

“What for?” demanded the practical Sam.

“Go on and ask him!” whispered Penrod fiercely.

“Say, M’rice!” Sam called, waving the bottle. “Want some?”

“Bring it here!” Mr. Levy requested.

“Come on over and get some,” returned Sam, being prompted.

“I can’t. Penrod Schofield’s after me.”

“No, I’m not,” said Penrod reassuringly. “I won’t touch you, M’rice. I made up with you yesterday afternoon–don’t you remember? You’re all right with me, M’rice.”

Maurice looked undecided. But Penrod had the delectable bottle again, and tilting it above his lips, affected to let the cool liquid purl enrichingly into him, while with his right hand he stroked his middle facade ineffably. Maurice’s mouth watered.

“Here!” cried Sam, stirred again by the superb manifestations of his friend. “Gimme that!”

Penrod brought the bottle down, surprisingly full after so much gusto, but withheld it from Sam; and the two scuffled for its possession. Nothing in the world could have so worked upon the desire of the yearning observer beyond the fence.

“Honest, Penrod–you ain’t goin’ to touch me if I come in your yard?” he called. “Honest?”

“Cross my heart!” answered Penrod, holding the bottle away from Sam. “And we’ll let you drink all you want.”

Maurice hastily climbed the fence, and while he was thus occupied Mr. Samuel Williams received a great enlightenment. With startling rapidity Penrod, standing just outside the storeroom door, extended his arm within the room, deposited the licorice water upon the counter of the drug store, seized in its stead the bottle of smallpox medicine, and extended it cordially toward the advancing Maurice.

Genius is like that–great, simple, broad strokes!

Dazzled, Mr. Samuel Williams leaned against the wall. He had the sensations of one who comes suddenly into the presence of a chef-d’oeuvre. Perhaps his first coherent thought was that almost universal one on such huge occasions: “Why couldn’t _I_ have done that!”

Sam might have been even more dazzled had he guessed that he figured not altogether as a spectator in the sweeping and magnificent conception of the new Talleyrand. Sam had no partner for the cotillon. If Maurice was to be absent from that festivity–as it began to seem he might be–Penrod needed a male friend to take care of Miss Rennsdale and he believed he saw his way to compel Mr. Williams to be that male friend. For this he relied largely upon the prospective conduct of Miss Rennsdale when he should get the matter before her–he was inclined to believe she would favour the exchange. As for Talleyrand Penrod himself, he was going to dance that cotillon with Marjorie Jones!

“You can have all you can drink at one pull, M’rice,” said Penrod kindly.

“You said I could have all I want!” protested Maurice, reaching for the bottle.

“No, I didn’t,” returned Penrod quickly, holding it away from the eager hand.

“He did, too! Didn’t he, Sam?”

Sam could not reply; his eyes, fixed upon the bottle, protruded strangely.

“You heard him–didn’t you, Sam?”

“Well, if I did say it I didn’t mean it!” said Penrod hastily, quoting from one of the authorities. “Looky here, M’rice,” he continued, assuming a more placative and reasoning tone, “that wouldn’t be fair to us. I guess we want some of our own lickrish water, don’t we? The bottle ain’t much over two- thirds full anyway. What I meant was, you can have all you can drink at one pull.”

“How do you mean?”

“Why, this way: you can gulp all you want, so long as you keep swallering; but you can’t take the bottle out of your mouth and commence again. Soon’s you quit swallering it’s Sam’s turn.”

“No; you can have next, Penrod,” said Sam.

“Well, anyway, I mean M’rice has to give the bottle up the minute he stops swallering.”

Craft appeared upon the face of Maurice, like a poster pasted on a wall.

“I can drink so long I don’t stop swallering?”

“Yes; that’s it.”

“All right!” he cried. “Gimme the bottle!”

And Penrod placed it in his hand.

“You promise to let me drink until I quit swallering?” Maurice insisted.

“Yes!” said both boys together.

With that, Maurice placed the bottle to his lips and began to drink. Penrod and Sam leaned forward in breathless excitement. They had feared Maurice might smell the contents of the bottle; but that danger was past–this was the crucial moment. Their fondest hope was that he would make his first swallow a voracious one–it was impossible to imagine a second. They expected one big, gulping swallow and then an explosion, with fountain effects.

Little they knew the mettle of their man! Maurice swallowed once; he swallowed twice–and thrice–and he continued to swallow! No Adam’s apple was sculptured on that juvenile throat, but the internal progress of the liquid was not a whit the less visible. His eyes gleamed with cunning and malicious triumph, sidewise, at the stunned conspirators; he was fulfilling the conditions of the draught, not once breaking the thread of that marvelous swallering.

His audience stood petrified. Already Maurice had swallowed more than they had given Duke and still the liquor receded in the uplifted bottle! And now the clear glass gleamed above the dark contents full half the vessel’s length–and Maurice went on drinking! Slowly the clear glass increased in its dimensions– slowly the dark diminished.

Sam Williams made a horrified movement to check him–but Maurice protested passionately with his disengaged arm, and made vehement vocal noises remindful of the contract; whereupon Sam desisted and watched the continuing performance in a state of grisly fascination.

Maurice drank it all! He drained the last drop and threw the bottle in the air, uttering loud ejaculations of triumph and satisfaction.

“Hah!” he cried, blowing out his cheeks, inflating his chest, squaring his shoulders, patting his stomach, and wiping his mouth contentedly. “Hah! Aha! Waha! Wafwah! But that was good!”

The two boys stood looking at him in stupor.

“Well, I gotta say this,” said Maurice graciously: “You stuck to your bargain all right and treated me fair.”

Stricken with a sudden horrible suspicion, Penrod entered the storeroom in one stride and lifted the bottle of licorice water to his nose–then to his lips. It was weak, but good; he had made no mistake. And Maurice had really drained–to the dregs– the bottle of old hair tonics, dead catsups, syrups of undesirable preserves, condemned extracts of vanilla and lemon, decayed chocolate, ex-essence of beef, mixed dental preparations, aromatic spirits of ammonia, spirits of nitre, alcohol, arnica, quinine, ipecac, sal volatile, nux vomica and licorice water– with traces of arsenic, belladonna and strychnine.

Penrod put the licorice water out of sight and turned to face the others. Maurice was seating himself on a box just outside the door and had taken a package of cigarettes from his pocket.

“Nobody can see me from here, can they?” he said, striking a match. “You fellers smoke?”

“No,” said Sam, staring at him haggardly.

“No,” said Penrod in a whisper.

Maurice lit his cigarette and puffed showily.

“Well, sir,” he remarked, “you fellers are certainly square– I gotta say that much. Honest, Penrod, I thought you was after me! I did think so,” he added sunnily; “but now I guess you like me, or else you wouldn’t of stuck to it about lettin’ me drink it all if I kept on swallering.”

He chatted on with complete geniality, smoking his cigarette in content. And as he ran from one topic to another his hearers stared at him in a kind of torpor. Never once did they exchange a glance with each other; their eyes were frozen to Maurice. The cheerful conversationalist made it evident that he was not without gratitude.

“Well,” he said as he finished his cigarette and rose to go, “you fellers have treated me nice and some day you come over to my yard; I’d like to run with you fellers. You’re the kind of fellers I like.”

Penrod’s jaw fell; Sam’s mouth had been open all the time. Neither spoke.

“I gotta go,” observed Maurice, consulting a handsome watch. “Gotta get dressed for the cotillon right after lunch. Come on, Sam. Don’t you have to go, too?”

Sam nodded dazedly.

“Well, good-bye, Penrod,” said Maurice cordially. “I’m glad you like me all right. Come on, Sam.”

Penrod leaned against the doorpost and with fixed and glazing eyes watched the departure of his two visitors. Maurice was talking volubly, with much gesticulation, as they went; but Sam walked mechanically and in silence, staring at his brisk companion and keeping at a little distance from him.

They passed from sight, Maurice still conversing gayly– and Penrod slowly betook himself into the house, his head bowed upon his chest.

Some three hours later, Mr. Samuel Williams, waxen clean and in sweet raiment, made his reappearance in Penrod’s yard, yodelling a code-signal to summon forth his friend. He yodelled loud, long, and frequently, finally securing a faint response from the upper air.

“Where are you?” shouted Mr. Williams, his roving glance searching ambient heights. Another low-spirited yodel reaching his ear, he perceived the head and shoulders of his friend projecting above the roofridge of the stable. The rest of Penrod’s body was concealed from view, reposing upon the opposite slant of the gable and precariously secured by the crooking of his elbows over the ridge.

“Yay! What you doin’ up there?”

“Nothin’.”

“You better be careful!” Sam called. “You’ll slide off and fall down in the alley if you don’t look out. I come pert’ near it last time we was up there. Come on down! Ain’t you goin’ to the cotillon?”

Penrod made no reply. Sam came nearer.

“Say,” he called up in a guarded voice, “I went to our telephone a while ago and ast him how he was feelin’, and he said he felt fine!”

“So did I,” said Penrod. “He told me he felt bully!”

Sam thrust his hands in his pockets and brooded. The opening of the kitchen door caused a diversion. It was Della.

“Mister Penrod,” she bellowed forthwith, “come ahn down fr’m up there! Y’r mamma’s at the dancin’ class waitin’ fer ye, an’ she’s telephoned me they’re goin’ to begin–an’ what’s the matter with ye? Come ahn down fr’m up there!”

“Come on!” urged Sam. “We’ll be late. There go Maurice and Marjorie now.”

A glittering car spun by, disclosing briefly a genre picture of Marjorie Jones in pink, supporting a monstrous sheaf of American Beauty roses. Maurice, sitting shining and joyous beside her, saw both boys and waved them a hearty greeting as the car turned the corner.

Penrod uttered some muffled words and then waved both arms– either in response or as an expression of his condition of mind; it may have been a gesture of despair. How much intention there was in this act–obviously so rash, considering the position he occupied–it is impossible to say. Undeniably there must remain a suspicion of deliberate purpose.

Della screamed and Sam shouted. Penrod had disappeared from view.

The delayed dance was about to begin a most uneven cotillon when Samuel Williams arrived.

Mrs. Schofield hurriedly left the ballroom; while Miss Rennsdale, flushing with sudden happiness, curtsied profoundly to Professor Bartet and obtained his attention.

“I have telled you fifty times,” he informed her passionately ere she spoke, “I cannot make no such changes. If your partner comes you have to dance with him. You are going to drive me crazy, sure! What is it? What now? What you want?”

The damsel curtsied again and handed him the following communication, addressed to herself:

“Dear madam Please excuse me from dancing the cotilon with you this afternoon as I have fell off the barn “Sincerly yours
“PENROD SCHOFIELD.”

CHAPTER XV
THE TWO FAMILIES

Penrod entered the schoolroom, Monday picturesquely leaning upon a man’s cane shortened to support a cripple approaching the age of twelve. He arrived about twenty minutes late, limping deeply, his brave young mouth drawn with pain, and the sensation he created must have been a solace to him; the only possible criticism of this entrance being that it was just a shade too heroic. Perhaps for that reason it failed to stagger Miss Spence, a woman so saturated with suspicion that she penalized Penrod for tardiness as promptly and as coldly as if he had been a mere, ordinary, unmutilated boy. Nor would she entertain any discussion of the justice of her ruling. It seemed, almost, that she feared to argue with him.

However, the distinction of cane and limp remained to him, consolations which he protracted far into the week–until Thursday evening, in fact, when Mr. Schofield, observing from a window his son’s pursuit of Duke round and round the backyard, confiscated the cane, with the promise that it should not remain idle if he saw Penrod limping again. Thus, succeeding a depressing Friday, another Saturday brought the necessity for new inventions.

It was a scented morning in apple-blossom time. At about ten of the clock Penrod emerged hastily from the kitchen door. His pockets bulged abnormally; so did his checks, and he swallowed with difficulty. A threatening mop, wielded by a cooklike arm in a checkered sleeve, followed him through the doorway, and he was preceded by a small, hurried, wistful dog with a warm doughnut in his mouth. The kitchen door slammed petulantly, enclosing the sore voice of Della, whereupon Penrod and Duke seated themselves upon the pleasant sward and immediately consumed the spoils of their raid.

From the cross-street which formed the side boundary of the Schofields’ ample yard came a jingle of harness and the cadenced clatter of a pair of trotting horses, and Penrod, looking up, beheld the passing of a fat acquaintance, torpid amid the conservative splendours of a rather old-fashioned victoria. This was Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, a fellow sufferer at the Friday Afternoon Dancing Class, but otherwise not often a companion: a home-sheltered lad, tutored privately and preserved against the coarsening influences of rude comradeship and miscellaneous information. Heavily overgrown in all physical dimensions, virtuous, and placid, this cloistered mutton was wholly uninteresting to Penrod Schofield. Nevertheless, Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, was a personage on account of the importance of the Magsworth Bitts family; and it was Penrod’s destiny to increase Roderick’s celebrity far, far beyond its present aristocratic limitations.

The Magsworth Bittses were important because they were impressive; there was no other reason. And they were impressive because they believed themselves important. The adults of the family were impregnably formal; they dressed with reticent elegance, and wore the same nose and the same expression–an expression which indicated that they knew something exquisite and sacred which other people could never know. Other people, in their presence, were apt to feel mysteriously ignoble and to become secretly uneasy about ancestors, gloves, and pronunciation. The Magsworth Bitts manner was withholding and reserved, though sometimes gracious, granting small smiles as great favours and giving off a chilling kind of preciousness. Naturally, when any citizen of the community did anything unconventional or improper, or made a mistake, or had a relative who went wrong, that citizen’s first and worst fear was that the Magsworth Bittses would hear of it. In fact, this painful family had for years terrorized the community, though the community had never realized that it was terrorized, and invariably spoke of the family as the “most charming circle in town.” By common consent, Mrs. Roderick Magsworth Bitts officiated as the supreme model as well as critic-in-chief of morals and deportment for all the unlucky people prosperous enough to be elevated to her acquaintance.

Magsworth was the important part of the name. Mrs. Roderick Magsworth Bitts was a Magsworth born, herself, and the Magsworth crest decorated not only Mrs. Magsworth Bitts’ note-paper but was on the china, on the table linen, on the chimney-pieces, on the opaque glass of the front door, on the victoria, and on the harness, though omitted from the garden-hose and the lawn-mower.

Naturally, no sensible person dreamed of connecting that illustrious crest with the unfortunate and notorious Rena Magsworth whose name had grown week by week into larger and larger type upon the front pages of newspapers, owing to the gradually increasing public and official belief that she had poisoned a family of eight. However, the statement that no sensible person could have connected the Magsworth Bitts family with the arsenical Rena takes no account of Penrod Schofield.

Penrod never missed a murder, a hanging or an electrocution in the newspapers; he knew almost as much about Rena Magsworth as her jurymen did, though they sat in a court-room two hundred miles away, and he had it in mind–so frank he was–to ask Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, if the murderess happened to be a relative.

The present encounter, being merely one of apathetic greeting, did not afford the opportunity. Penrod took off his cap, and Roderick, seated between his mother and one of his grown-up sisters, nodded sluggishly, but neither Mrs. Magsworth Bitts nor her daughter acknowledged the salutation of the boy in the yard. They disapproved of him as a person of little consequence, and that little, bad. Snubbed, Penrod thoughtfully restored his cap to his head. A boy can be cut as effectually as a man, and this one was chilled to a low temperature. He wondered if they despised him because they had seen a last fragment of doughnut in his hand; then he thought that perhaps it was Duke who had disgraced him. Duke was certainly no fashionable looking dog.

The resilient spirits of youth, however, presently revived, and discovering a spider upon one knee and a beetle simultaneously upon the other, Penrod forgot Mrs. Roderick Magsworth Bitts in the course of some experiments infringing upon the domain of Doctor Carrel. Penrod’s efforts–with the aid of a pin–to effect a transference of living organism were unsuccessful; but he convinced himself forever that a spider cannot walk with a beetle’s legs. Della then enhanced zoological interest by depositing upon the back porch a large rat-trap from the cellar, the prison of four live rats awaiting execution.

Penrod at once took possession, retiring to the empty stable, where he installed the rats in a small wooden box with a sheet of broken window-glass–held down by a brickbat–over the top. Thus the symptoms of their agitation, when the box was shaken or hammered upon, could be studied at leisure. Altogether this Saturday was starting splendidly.

After a time, the student’s attention was withdrawn from his specimens by a peculiar smell, which, being followed up by a system of selective sniffing, proved to be an emanation leaking into the stable from the alley. He opened the back door.

Across the alley was a cottage which a thrifty neighbour had built on the rear line of his lot and rented to negroes; and the fact that a negro family was now in process of “moving in” was manifested by the presence of a thin mule and a ramshackle wagon, the latter laden with the semblance of a stove and a few other unpretentious household articles.

A very small darky boy stood near the mule. In his hand was a rusty chain, and at the end of the chain the delighted Penrod perceived the source of the special smell he was tracing– a large raccoon. Duke, who had shown not the slightest interest in the rats, set up a frantic barking and simulated a ravening assault upon the strange animal. It was only a bit of acting, however, for Duke was an old dog, had suffered much, and desired no unnecessary sorrow, wherefore he confined his demonstrations to alarums and excursions, and presently sat down at a distance and expressed himself by intermittent threatenings in a quavering falsetto.

“What’s that ‘coon’s name?” asked Penrod, intending no discourtesy.

“Aim gommo mame,” said the small darky.

“What?”

“Aim gommo mame.”

“WHAT?”

The small darky looked annoyed.

“Aim GOMMO mame, I hell you,” he said impatiently.

Penrod conceived that insult was intended.

“What’s the matter of you?” he demanded advancing. “You get fresh with ME, and I’ll—-“

“Hyuh, white boy!” A coloured youth of Penrod’s own age appeared in the doorway of the cottage. “You let ‘at brothuh mine alone. He ain’ do nothin’ to you.”

“Well, why can’t he answer?”

“He can’t. He can’t talk no better’n what he WAS talkin’. He tongue-tie’.”

“Oh,” said Penrod, mollified. Then, obeying an impulse so universally aroused in the human breast under like circumstances that it has become a quip, he turned to the afflicted one.

“Talk some more,” he begged eagerly.

“I hoe you ackoom aim gommo mame,” was the prompt response, in which a slight ostentation was manifest. Unmistakable tokens of vanity had appeared upon the small, swart countenance.

“What’s he mean?” asked Penrod, enchanted.

“He say he tole you ‘at ‘coon ain’ got no name.”

“What’s YOUR name?”

“I’m name Herman.”

“What’s his name?” Penrod pointed to the tongue-tied boy.

“Verman.”

“What!”

“Verman. Was three us boys in ow fam’ly. Ol’est one name Sherman. ‘N’en come me; I’m Herman. ‘N’en come him; he Verman. Sherman dead. Verman, he de littles’ one.”

“You goin’ to live here?”

“Umhuh. Done move in f’m way outen on a fahm.”

He pointed to the north with his right hand, and Penrod’s eyes opened wide as they followed the gesture. Herman had no forefinger on that hand.

“Look there!” exclaimed Penrod. “You haven’t got any finger!”

“_I_ mum map,” said Verman, with egregious pride.

“HE done ‘at,” interpreted Herman, chuckling. “Yessuh; done chop ‘er spang off, long ‘go. He’s a playin’ wif a ax an’ I lay my finguh on de do’-sill an’ I say, `Verman, chop ‘er off!’ So Verman he chop ‘er right spang off up to de roots! Yessuh.”

“What FOR?”

“Jes’ fo’ nothin’.”

“He hoe me hoo,” remarked Verman.

“Yessuh, I tole him to,” said Herman, “an’ he chop ‘er off, an’ ey ain’t airy oth’ one evuh grown on wheres de ole one use to grow. Nosuh!”

“But what’d you tell him to do it for?”

“Nothin’. I ‘es’ said it ‘at way–an’ he jes’ chop er off!”

Both brothers looked pleased and proud. Penrod’s profound interest was flatteringly visible, a tribute to their unusualness.

“Hem bow goy,” suggested Verman eagerly.

“Aw ri’,” said Herman. “Ow sistuh Queenie, she a growed-up woman; she got a goituh.”

“Got a what?”

“Goituh. Swellin’ on her neck–grea’ big swellin’. She heppin’ mammy move in now. You look in de front-room winduh wheres she sweepin’; you kin see it on her.”

Penrod looked in the window and was rewarded by a fine view of Queenie’s goitre. He had never before seen one, and only the lure of further conversation on the part of Verman brought him from the window.

“Verman say tell you ’bout pappy,” explained Herman. “Mammy an’ Queenie move in town an’ go git de house all fix up befo’ pappy git out.”

“Out of where?”

“Jail. Pappy cut a man, an’ de police done kep’ him in jail evuh sense Chris’mus-time; but dey goin’ tuhn him loose ag’in nex’ week.”

“What’d he cut the other man with?”

“Wif a pitchfawk.”

Penrod began to feel that a lifetime spent with this fascinating family were all too short. The brothers, glowing with amiability, were as enraptured as he. For the first time in their lives they moved in the rich glamour of sensationalism. Herman was prodigal of gesture with his right hand; and Verman, chuckling with delight, talked fluently, though somewhat consciously. They cheerfully agreed to keep the raccoon–already beginning to be mentioned as “our ‘coon” by Penrod–in Mr. Schofield’s empty stable, and, when the animal had been chained to the wall near the box of rats and supplied with a pan of fair water, they assented to their new friend’s suggestion (inspired by a fine sense of the artistic harmonies) that the heretofore nameless pet be christened Sherman, in honour of their deceased relative.

At this juncture was heard from the front yard the sound of that yodelling which is the peculiar accomplishment of those whose voices have not “changed.” Penrod yodelled a response; and Mr. Samuel Williams appeared, a large bundle under his arm.

“Yay, Penrod!” was his greeting, casual enough from without; but, having entered, he stopped short and emitted a prodigious whistle. “YA-A-AY!” he then shouted. “Look at the ‘coon!”

“I guess you better say, `Look at the ‘coon!'” Penrod returned proudly. “They’s a good deal more’n him to look at, too. Talk some, Verman.” Verman complied.

Sam was warmly interested. “What’d you say his name was?” he asked.

“Verman.”

“How d’you spell it?”

“V-e-r-m-a-n,” replied Penrod, having previously received this information from Herman.

“Oh!” said Sam.

“Point to sumpthing, Herman,” Penrod commanded, and Sam’s excitement, when Herman pointed was sufficient to the occasion.

Penrod, the discoverer, continued his exploitation of the manifold wonders of the Sherman, Herman, and Verman collection. With the air of a proprietor he escorted Sam into the alley for a good look at Queenie (who seemed not to care for her increasing celebrity) and proceeded to a dramatic climax–the recital of the episode of the pitchfork and its consequences.

The cumulative effect was enormous, and could have but one possible result. The normal boy is always at least one half Barnum.

“Let’s get up a SHOW!”

Penrod and Sam both claimed to have said it first, a question left unsettled in the ecstasies of hurried preparation. The bundle under Sam’s arm, brought with no definite purpose, proved to have been an inspiration. It consisted of broad sheets of light yellow wrapping-paper, discarded by Sam’s mother in her spring house-cleaning. There were half-filled cans and buckets of paint in the storeroom adjoining the carriage-house, and presently the side wall of the stable flamed information upon the passer-by from a great and spreading poster.

“Publicity,” primal requisite of all theatrical and amphitheatrical enterprise thus provided, subsequent arrangements proceeded with a fury of energy which transformed the empty hay- loft. True, it is impossible to say just what the hay-loft was transformed into, but history warrantably clings to the statement that it was transformed. Duke and Sherman were secured to the rear wall at a considerable distance from each other, after an exhibition of reluctance on the part of Duke, during which he displayed a nervous energy and agility almost miraculous in so small and middle-aged a dog. Benches were improvised for spectators; the rats were brought up; finally the rafters, corn- crib, and hay-chute were ornamented with flags and strips of bunting from Sam Williams’ attic, Sam returning from the excursion wearing an old silk hat, and accompanied (on account of a rope) by a fine dachshund encountered on the highway. In the matter of personal decoration paint was generously used: an interpretation of the spiral, inclining to whites and greens, becoming brilliantly effective upon the dark facial backgrounds of Herman and Verman; while the countenances of Sam and Penrod were each supplied with the black moustache and imperial, lacking which, no professional showman can be esteemed conscientious.

It was regretfully decided, in council, that no attempt be made to add Queenie to the list of exhibits, her brothers warmly declining to act as ambassadors in that cause. They were certain Queenie would not like the idea, they said, and Herman picturesquely described her activity on occasions when she had been annoyed by too much attention to her appearance. However, Penrod’s disappointment was alleviated by an inspiration which came to him in a moment of pondering upon the dachshund, and the entire party went forth to add an enriching line to the poster.

They found a group of seven, including two adults, already gathered in the street to read and admire this work.

SCHoFiELD & WiLLiAMS
BiG SHOW
ADMiSSioN 1 CENT oR 20 PiNS
MUSUEM oF CURioSiTES
Now GoiNG oN
SHERMAN HERMAN & VERMAN
THiER FATHERS iN JAiL STABED A
MAN WiTH A
PiTCHFORK
SHERMAN THE WiLD ANIMAL
CAPTURED iN AFRiCA
HERMAN THE ONE FiNGERED TATOOD
WILD MAN VERMAN THE SAVAGE TATOOD
WILD BoY TALKS ONLY iN HiS NAiTiVE LANGUAGS. Do NoT FAIL TO SEE DUKE
THE INDiAN DOG ALSO THE MiCHiGAN
TRAiNED RATS

A heated argument took place between Sam and Penrod, the point at issue being settled, finally, by the drawing of straws; whereupon Penrod, with pardonable self-importance–in the presence of an audience now increased to nine–slowly painted the words inspired by the dachshund:

IMPoRTENT Do NoT MISS THE SoUTH
AMERiCAN DoG PART ALLIGATOR.

CHAPTER XVI
THE NEW STAR

Sam, Penrod, Herman, and Verman withdrew in considerable state from non-paying view, and, repairing to the hay-loft, declared the exhibition open to the public. Oral proclamation was made by Sam, and then the loitering multitude was enticed by the seductive strains of a band; the two partners performing upon combs and paper, Herman and Verman upon tin pans with sticks.

The effect was immediate. Visitors appeared upon the stairway and sought admission. Herman and Verman took position among the exhibits, near the wall; Sam stood at the entrance, officiating as barker and ticket-seller; while Penrod, with debonair suavity, acted as curator, master of ceremonies, and lecturer. He greeted the first to enter with a courtly bow. They consisted of Miss Rennsdale and her nursery governess, and they paid spot cash for their admission.

“Walk in, lay-deeze, walk right in–pray do not obstruck the passageway,” said Penrod, in a remarkable voice. “Pray be seated; there is room for each and all.”

Miss Rennsdale and governess were followed by Mr. Georgie Bassett and baby sister (which proves the perfection of Georgie’s character) and six or seven other neighbourhood children–a most satisfactory audience, although, subsequent to Miss Rennsdale and governess, admission was wholly by pin.

“GEN-til-mun and LAY-deeze,” shouted Penrod, “I will first call your at-tain-shon to our genuine South American dog, part alligator!” He pointed to the dachshund, and added, in his ordinary tone, “That’s him.” Straightway reassuming the character of showman, he bellowed: “NEXT, you see Duke, the genuine, full-blooded Indian dog from the far Western Plains and Rocky Mountains. NEXT, the trained Michigan rats, captured way up there, and trained to jump and run all around the box at the–at the–at the slightest PRE-text!” He paused, partly to take breath and partly to enjoy his own surprised discovery that this phrase was in his vocabulary.

“At the slightest PRE-text!” he repeated, and continued, suiting the action to the word: “I will now hammer upon the box and each and all may see these genuine full-blooded Michigan rats perform at the slightest PRE-text! There! (That’s all they do now, but I and Sam are goin’ to train ’em lots more before this afternoon.) GEN-til-mun and LAY-deeze I will kindly now call your at-tain-shon to Sherman, the wild animal from Africa, costing the lives of the wild trapper and many of his companions. NEXT, let me kindly interodoos Herman and Verman. Their father got mad and stuck his pitchfork right inside of another man, exactly as promised upon the advertisements outside the big tent, and got put in jail. Look at them well, gen-til-mun and lay-deeze, there is no extra charge, and RE-MEM-BUR you are each and all now looking at two wild, tattooed men which the father of is in jail. Point, Herman. Each and all will have a chance to see. Point to sumpthing else, Herman. This is the only genuine one-fingered tattooed wild man. Last on the programme, gen-til-mun and lay- deeze, we have Verman, the savage tattooed wild boy, that can’t speak only his native foreign languages. Talk some, Verman.”

Verman obliged and made an instantaneous hit. He was encored rapturously, again and again; and, thrilling with the unique pleasure of being appreciated and misunderstood at the same time, would have talked all day but too gladly. Sam Williams, however, with a true showman’s foresight, whispered to Penrod, who rang down on the monologue.

“GEN-til-mun and LAY-deeze, this closes our pufformance. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible. As soon as you are all out there’s goin’ to be a new pufformance, and each and all are welcome at the same and simple price of admission. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible. RE-MEM-BUR the price is only one cent, the tenth part of a dime, or twenty pins, no bent ones taken. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible. The Schofield and Williams Military Band will play before each pufformance, and each and all are welcome for the same and simple price of admission. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible.”

Forthwith, the Schofield and Williams Military Band began a second overture, in which something vaguely like a tune was at times distinguishable; and all of the first audience returned, most of them having occupied the interval in hasty excursions for more pins; Miss Rennsdale and governess, however, again paying coin of the Republic and receiving deference and the best seats accordingly. And when a third performance found all of the same inveterate patrons once more crowding the auditorium, and seven recruits added, the pleasurable excitement of the partners in their venture will be understood by any one who has seen a metropolitan manager strolling about the foyer of his theatre some evening during the earlier stages of an assured “phenomenal run.”

From the first, there was no question which feature of the entertainment was the attraction extraordinary: Verman–Verman, the savage tattooed wild boy, speaking only his native foreign languages–Verman was a triumph! Beaming, wreathed in smiles, melodious, incredibly fluent, he had but to open his lips and a dead hush fell upon the audience. Breathless, they leaned forward, hanging upon his every semi-syllable, and, when Penrod checked the flow, burst into thunders of applause, which Verman received with happy laughter.

Alas! he delayed not o’er long to display all the egregiousness of a new star; but for a time there was no caprice of his too eccentric to be forgiven. During Penrod’s lecture upon the other curios, the tattooed wild boy continually stamped his foot, grinned, and gesticulated, tapping his tiny chest, and pointing to himself as it were to say: “Wait for Me! I am the Big Show.” So soon they learn; so soon they learn! And (again alas!) this spoiled darling of public favour, like many another, was fated to know, in good time, the fickleness of that favour.

But during all the morning performances he was the idol of his audience and looked it! The climax of his popularity came during the fifth overture of the Schofield and Williams Military Band, when the music was quite drowned in the agitated clamours of Miss Rennsdale, who was endeavouring to ascend the stairs in spite of the physical dissuasion of her governess.

“I WON’T go home to lunch!” screamed Miss Rennsdale, her voice accompanied by a sound of ripping. “I WILL hear the tattooed wild boy talk some more! It’s lovely–I WILL hear him talk! I WILL! I WILL! I want to listen to Verman– I WANT to–I WANT to—-“

Wailing, she was borne away–of her sex not the first to be fascinated by obscurity, nor the last to champion its eloquence.

Verman was almost unendurable after this, but, like many, many other managers, Schofield and Williams restrained their choler, and even laughed fulsomely when their principal attraction essayed the role of a comedian in private, and capered and squawked in sheer, fatuous vanity.

The first performance of the afternoon rivalled the successes of the morning, and although Miss Rennsdale was detained at home, thus drying up the single source of cash income developed before lunch, Maurice Levy appeared, escorting Marjorie Jones, and paid coin for two admissions, dropping the money into Sam’s hand with a careless–nay, a contemptuous–gesture. At sight of Marjorie, Penrod Schofield flushed under his new moustache (repainted since noon) and lectured as he had never lectured before. A new grace invested his every gesture; a new sonorousness rang in his voice; a simple and manly pomposity marked his very walk as he passed from curio to curio. And when he fearlessly handled the box of rats and hammered upon it with cool insouciance, he beheld–for the first time in his life–a purl of admiration eddying in Marjorie’s lovely eye, a certain softening of that eye. And then Verman spake and Penrod was forgotten. Marjorie’s eye rested upon him no more.

A heavily equipped chauffeur ascended the stairway, bearing the message that Mrs. Levy awaited her son and his lady. Thereupon, having devoured the last sound permitted (by the managers) to issue from Verman, Mr. Levy and Miss Jones departed to a real matinee at a real theatre, the limpid eyes of Marjorie looking back softly over her shoulder–but only at the tattooed wild boy. Nearly always it is woman who puts the irony into life.

After this, perhaps because of sated curiosity, perhaps on account of a pin famine, the attendance began to languish. Only four responded to the next call of the band; the four dwindled to three; finally the entertainment was given for one blase auditor, and Schofield and Williams looked depressed. Then followed an interval when the band played in vain.

About three o’clock Schofield and Williams were gloomily discussing various unpromising devices for startling the public into a renewal of interest, when another patron unexpectedly appeared and paid a cent for his admission. News of the Big Show and Museum of Curiosities had at last penetrated the far, cold spaces of interstellar niceness, for this new patron consisted of no less than Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, escaped in a white “sailor suit” from the Manor during a period of severe maternal and tutorial preoccupation.

He seated himself without parley, and the pufformance was offered for his entertainment with admirable conscientiousness. True to the Lady Clara caste and training, Roderick’s pale, fat face expressed nothing except an impervious superiority and, as he sat, cold and unimpressed upon the front bench, like a large, white lump, it must be said that he made a discouraging audience “to play to.” He was not, however, unresponsive–far from it. He offered comment very chilling to the warm grandiloquence of the orator.

“That’s my uncle Ethelbert’s dachshund,” he remarked, at the beginning of the lecture. “You better take him back if you don’t want to get arrested.” And when Penrod, rather uneasily ignoring the interruption, proceeded to the exploitation of the genuine, full-blooded Indian dog, Duke, “Why don’t you try to give that old dog away?” asked Roderick. “You couldn’t sell him.”

“My papa would buy me a lots better ‘coon than that,” was the information volunteered a little later, “only I wouldn’t want the nasty old thing.”

Herman of the missing finger obtained no greater indulgence. “Pooh!” said Roderick. “We have two fox-terriers in our stables that took prizes at the kennel show, and their tails were BIT off. There’s a man that always bites fox-terriers’ tails off.”

“Oh, my gosh, what a lie!” exclaimed Sam Williams ignorantly.

“Go on with the show whether he likes it or not, Penrod. He’s paid his money.”

Verman, confident in his own singular powers, chuckled openly at the failure of the other attractions to charm the frosty visitor, and, when his turn came, poured forth a torrent of conversation which was straightway damned.

“Rotten,” said Mr. Bitts languidly. “Anybody could talk like that. _I_ could do it if I wanted to.”

Verman paused suddenly.

“YES, you could!” exclaimed Penrod, stung. “Let’s hear you do it, then.”

“Yessir!” the other partner shouted. “Let’s just hear you DO it!”

“I said I could if I wanted to,” responded Roderick. “I didn’t say I WOULD.”

“Yay! Knows he can’t!” sneered Sam.

“I can, too, if I try.”

“Well, let’s hear you try!”

So challenged, the visitor did try, but, in the absence of an impartial jury, his effort was considered so pronounced a failure that he was howled down, derided, and mocked with great clamours.

“Anyway,” said Roderick, when things had quieted down, “if I couldn’t get up a better show than this I’d sell out and leave town.”

Not having enough presence of mind to inquire what he would sell out, his adversaries replied with mere formless yells of scorn.

“I could get up a better show than this with my left hand,” Roderick asserted.

“Well, what would you have in your ole show?” asked Penrod, condescending to language.

“That’s all right, what I’d HAVE. I’d have enough!”

“You couldn’t get Herman and Verman in your ole show.”

“No, and I wouldn’t want ’em, either!”

“Well, what WOULD you have?” insisted Penrod derisively. “You’d have to have SUMPTHING–you couldn’t be a show yourself!”

“How do YOU know?” This was but meandering while waiting for ideas, and evoked another yell.

“You think you could be a show all by yourself?” demanded Penrod.

“How do YOU know I couldn’t?”

Two white boys and two black boys shrieked their scorn of the boaster.

“I could, too!” Roderick raised his voice to a sudden howl, obtaining a hearing.

“Well, why don’t you tell us how?”

“Well, _I_ know HOW, all right,” said Roderick. “If anybody asks you, you can just tell him I know HOW, all right.”

“Why, you can’t DO anything,” Sam began argumentatively. “You talk about being a show all by yourself; what could you try to do? Show us sumpthing you can do.”

“I didn’t say I was going to DO anything,” returned the badgered one, still evading.

“Well, then, how’d you BE a show?” Penrod demanded. “WE got a show here, even if Herman didn’t point or Verman didn’t talk. Their father stabbed a man with a pitchfork, I guess, didn’t he?”

“How do _I_ know?”

“Well, I guess he’s in jail, ain’t he?”

“Well, what if their father is in jail? I didn’t say he wasn’t, did I?”

“Well, YOUR father ain’t in jail, is he?”

“Well, I never said he was, did I?”

“Well, then,” continued Penrod, “how could you be a—-” He stopped abruptly, staring at Roderick, the birth of an idea plainly visible in his altered expression. He had suddenly remembered his intention to ask Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, about Rena Magsworth, and this recollection collided in his mind with the irritation produced by Roderick’s claiming some mysterious attainment which would warrant his setting up as a show in his single person. Penrod’s whole manner changed instantly.

“Roddy,” he asked, almost overwhelmed by a prescience of something vast and magnificent, “Roddy, are you any relation of Rena Magsworth?”

Roderick had never heard of Rena Magsworth, although a concentration of the sentence yesterday pronounced upon her had burned, black and horrific, upon the face of every newspaper in the country. He was not allowed to read the journals of the day and his family’s indignation over the sacrilegious coincidence of the name had not been expressed in his presence. But he saw that it was an awesome name to Penrod Schofield and Samuel Williams. Even Herman and Verman, though lacking many educational advantages on account of a long residence in the country, were informed on the subject of Rena Magsworth through hearsay, and they joined in the portentous silence.

“Roddy,” repeated Penrod, “honest, is Rena Magsworth some relation of yours?”

There is no obsession more dangerous to its victims than a conviction especially an inherited one–of superiority: this world is so full of Missourians. And from his earliest years Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, had been trained to believe in the importance of the Magsworth family. At every meal he absorbed a sense of Magsworth greatness, and yet, in his infrequent meetings with persons of his own age and sex, he was treated as negligible. Now, dimly, he perceived that there was a Magsworth claim of some sort which was impressive, even to boys. Magsworth blood was the essential of all true distinction in the world, he knew. Consequently, having been driven into a cul-de-sac, as a result of flagrant and unfounded boasting, he was ready to take advantage of what appeared to be a triumphal way out.

“Roddy,” said Penrod again, with solemnity, “is Rena Magsworth some relation of yours?”

“IS she, Roddy?” asked Sam, almost hoarsely.

“She’s my aunt!” shouted Roddy.

Silence followed. Sam and Penrod, spellbound, gazed upon Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior. So did Herman and Verman. Roddy’s staggering lie had changed the face of things utterly. No one questioned it; no one realized that it was much too good to be true.

“Roddy,” said Penrod, in a voice tremulous with hope, “Roddy, will you join our show?”

Roddy joined.

Even he could see that the offer implied his being starred as the paramount attraction of a new order of things. It was obvious that he had swelled out suddenly, in the estimation of the other boys, to that importance which he had been taught to believe his native gift and natural right. The sensation was pleasant. He had often been treated with effusion by grown- up callers and by acquaintances of his mothers and sisters; he had heard ladies speak of him as “charming” and “that delightful child,” and little girls had sometimes shown him deference, but until this moment no boy had ever allowed him, for one moment, to presume even to equality. Now, in a trice, he was not only admitted to comradeship, but patently valued as something rare and sacred to be acclaimed and pedestalled. In fact, the very first thing that Schofield and Williams did was to find a box for him to stand upon.

The misgivings roused in Roderick’s bosom by the subsequent activities of the firm were not bothersome enough to make him forego his prominence as Exhibit A. He was not a “quick-minded” boy, and it was long (and much happened) before he thoroughly comprehended the causes of his new celebrity. He had a shadowy feeling that if the affair came to be heard of at home it might not be liked, but, intoxicated by the glamour and bustle which surround a public character, he made no protest. On the contrary, he entered whole-heartedly into the preparations for the new show. Assuming, with Sam’s assistance, a blue moustache and “side-burns,” he helped in the painting of a new poster, which, supplanting the old one on the wall of the stable facing the cross-street, screamed bloody murder at the passers in that rather populous thoroughfare.

SCHoFiELD & WiLLiAMS
NEW BIG SHoW
RoDERiCK MAGSWoRTH BiTTS JR
ONLY LiViNG NEPHEW
oF
RENA MAGSWORTH
THE FAMOS
MUDERESS GoiNG To BE HUNG
NEXT JULY KiLED EiGHT PEOPLE
PUT ARSiNECK iN THiER MiLK ALSO
SHERMAN HERMAN AND VERMAN
THE MiCHiGAN RATS DOG PART
ALLiGATOR DUKE THE GENUiNE
InDiAN DoG ADMISSioN 1 CENT oR
20 PINS SAME AS BEFORE Do NoT
MISS THIS CHANSE TO SEE RoDERICK
ONLY LiViNG NEPHEW oF RENA
MAGSWORTH THE GREAT FAMOS
MUDERESS
GoiNG To BE
HUNG

CHAPTER VII
RETIRING FROM THE SHOW BUSINESS

Megaphones were constructed out of heavy wrapping-paper, and Penrod, Sam, and Herman set out in different directions, delivering vocally the inflammatory proclamation of the poster to a large section of the residential quarter, and leaving Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, with Verman in the loft, shielded from all deadhead eyes. Upon the return of the heralds, the Schofield and Williams Military Band played deafeningly, and an awakened public once more thronged to fill the coffers of the firm.

Prosperity smiled again. The very first audience after the acquisition of Roderick was larger than the largest of the morning. Master Bitts–the only exhibit placed upon a box–was a supercurio. All eyes fastened upon him and remained, hungrily feasting, throughout Penrod’s luminous oration.

But the glory of one light must ever be the dimming of another. We dwell in a vale of seesaws–and cobwebs spin fastest upon laurel. Verman, the tattooed wild boy, speaking only in his native foreign languages, Verman the gay, Verman the caperer, capered no more; he chuckled no more, he beckoned no more, nor tapped his chest, nor wreathed his idolatrous face in smiles. Gone, all gone, were his little artifices for attracting the general attention to himself; gone was every engaging mannerism which had endeared him to the mercurial public. He squatted against the wall and glowered at the new sensation. It was the old story–the old, old story of too much temperament: Verman was suffering from artistic jealousy.

The second audience contained a cash-paying adult, a spectacled young man whose poignant attention was very flattering. He remained after the lecture, and put a few questions to Roddy, which were answered rather confusedly upon promptings from Penrod. The young man went away without having stated the object of his interrogations, but it became quite plain, later in the day. This same object caused the spectacled young man to make several brief but stimulating calls directly after leaving the Schofield and Williams Big Show, and the consequences thereof loitered not by the wayside.

The Big Show was at high tide. Not only was the auditorium filled and throbbing; there was an indubitable line–by no means wholly juvenile–waiting for admission to the next pufformance. A group stood in the street examining the poster earnestly as it glowed in the long, slanting rays of the westward sun, and people in automobiles and other vehicles had halted wheel in the street to read the message so piquantly given to the world. These were the conditions when a crested victoria arrived at a gallop, and a large, chastely magnificent and highly flushed woman descended, and progressed across the yard with an air of violence.

At sight of her, the adults of the waiting line hastily disappeared, and most of the pausing vehicles moved instantly on their way. She was followed by a stricken man in livery.

The stairs to the auditorium were narrow and steep; Mrs. Roderick Magsworth Bitts was of a stout favour; and the voice of Penrod was audible during the ascent.

“RE-MEM-BUR, gentilmun and lay-deeze, each and all are now gazing upon Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Junior, the only living nephew of the great Rena Magsworth. She stuck ars’nic in the milk of eight separate and distinck people to put in their coffee and each and all of ’em died. The great ars’nic murderess, Rena Magsworth, gentilmun and lay-deeze, and Roddy’s her only living nephew. She’s a relation of all the Bitts family, but he’s her one and only living nephew. RE-MEM-BUR! Next July she’s goin’ to be hung, and, each and all, you now see before you—-“

Penrod paused abruptly, seeing something before himself–the august and awful presence which filled the entryway. And his words (it should be related) froze upon his lips.

Before HERSELF, Mrs. Roderick Magsworth Bitts saw her son–her scion–wearing a moustache and sideburns of blue, and perched upon a box flanked by Sherman and Verman, the Michigan rats, the Indian dog Duke, Herman, and the dog part alligator.

Roddy, also, saw something before himself. It needed no prophet to read the countenance of the dread apparition in the entryway. His mouth opened–remained open–then filled to capacity with a calamitous sound of grief not unmingled with apprehension.

Penrod’s reason staggered under the crisis. For a horrible moment he saw Mrs. Roderick Magsworth Bitts approaching like some fatal mountain in avalanche. She seemed to grow larger and redder; lightnings played about her head; he had a vague consciousness of the audience spraying out in flight, of the squealings, tramplings and dispersals of a stricken field. The mountain was close upon him—-

He stood by the open mouth of the hay-chute which went through the floor to the manger below. Penrod also went through the floor. He propelled himself into the chute and shot down, but not quite to the manger, for Mr. Samuel Williams had thoughtfully stepped into the chute a moment in advance of his partner. Penrod lit upon Sam.

Catastrophic noises resounded in the loft; volcanoes seemed to romp upon the stairway.

There ensued a period when only a shrill keening marked the passing of Roderick as he was borne to the tumbril. Then all was silence.

. . . Sunset, striking through a western window, rouged the walls of the Schofields’ library, where gathered a joint family council and court martial of four–Mrs. Schofield, Mr. Schofield, and Mr. and Mrs. Williams, parents of Samuel of that ilk. Mr. Williams read aloud a conspicuous passage from the last edition of the evening paper:

“Prominent people here believed close relations of woman sentenced to hang. Angry denial by Mrs. R. Magsworth Bitts. Relationship admitted by younger member of family. His statement confirmed by boy-friends—-“

“Don’t!” said Mrs. Williams, addressing her husband vehemently. “We’ve all read it a dozen times. We’ve got