“Penrod,” said his mother, “what did you do with that loaf of bread Della says you took from the table?”
“Ma'am? WHAT loaf o' bread?”
“I believe I can't let you go outdoors this afternoon,” Mrs. Schofield said severely. “If you were hungry, you know perfectly well all you had to do was to—”
“But I wasn't hungry; I—”
“You can explain later,” Mrs. Schofield said. “You'll have all afternoon.”
Penrod's heart grew cold.
“I CAN'T stay in,” he protested. “I've asked Sam Williams to come over.”
“I'll telephone Mrs. Williams.”
“Mamma!” Penrod's voice became agonized. “I HAD to give that bread to a—to a poor ole man. He was starving and so were his children and his wife. They were all just STARVING—and they couldn't wait while I took time to come and ask you, Mamma. I got to GO outdoors this afternoon. I GOT to! Sam's—”
She relented.
In the carriage-house, half an hour later, Penrod gave an account of the episode.
“Where'd we been, I'd just like to know,” he concluded, “if I hadn't got out here this afternoon?”
“Well, I guess I could managed him all right,” Sam said. “I was in the passageway, a minute ago, takin' a look at him. He's standin' up again. I expect he wants more to eat.”
“Well, we got to fix about that,” said Penrod. “But what I mean—if I'd had to stay in the house, where would we been about the most important thing in the whole biz'nuss?”
“What you talkin' about?”
“Well, why can't you wait till I tell you?” Penrod's tone had become peevish. For that matter, so had Sam's; they were developing one of the little differences, or quarrels, that composed the very texture of their friendship.
“Well, why don't you tell me, then?”
“Well, how can I?” Penrod demanded. “You keep talkin' every minute.”
“I'm not talkin' NOW, am I?” Sam protested. “You can tell me NOW, can't you? I'm not talk—”
“You are, too!” Penrod shouted. “You talk all the time! You—”
He was interrupted by Whitey's peculiar cough. Both boys jumped and forgot their argument.
“He means he wants some more to eat, I bet,” said Sam.
“Well, if he does, he's got to wait,” Penrod declared. “We got to get the most important thing of all fixed up first.”
“What's that, Penrod?”
“The reward,” said Penrod mildly. “That's what I was tryin' to tell you about, Sam, if you'd ever give me half a chance.”
“Well, I DID give you a chance. I kept TELLIN' you to tell me, but—”
“You never! You kept sayin'—”
They renewed this discussion, protracting it indefinitely; but as each persisted in clinging to his own interpretation of the facts, the question still remains unsettled. It was abandoned, or rather, it merged into another during the later stages of the debate, this other being concerned with which of the debaters had the least “sense.” Each made the plain statement that if he were more deficient than his opponent in that regard, self-destruction would be his only refuge. Each declared that he would “rather die than be talked to death”; and then, as the two approached a point bluntly recriminative, Whitey coughed again, whereupon they were miraculously silent, and went into the passageway in a perfectly amiable manner.
“I got to have a good look at him, for once,” Penrod said, as he stared frowningly at Whitey. “We got to fix up about that reward.”
“I want to take a good ole look at him myself,” Sam said.
After supplying Whitey with another bucket of water, they returned to the carriage-house and seated themselves thoughtfully. In truth, they were something a shade more than thoughtful; the adventure to which they had committed themselves was beginning to be a little overpowering. If Whitey had been a dog, a goat, a fowl, or even a stray calf, they would have felt equal to him; but now that the earlier glow of their wild daring had disappeared, vague apprehensions stirred. Their “good look” at Whitey had not reassured them—he seemed large, Gothic and unusual.
Whisperings within them began to urge that for boys to undertake an enterprise connected with so huge an animal as an actual horse was perilous. Beneath the surface of their musings, dim but ominous prophecies moved; both boys began to have the feeling that, somehow, this affair was going to get beyond them and that they would be in heavy trouble before it was over—they knew not why. They knew why no more than they knew why they felt it imperative to keep the fact of Whitey's presence in the stable a secret from their respective families; but they did begin to realize that keeping a secret of that size was going to be attended with some difficulty. In brief, their sensations were becoming comparable to those of the man who stole a house.
Nevertheless, after a short period given to unspoken misgivings, they returned to the subject of the reward. The money-value of bay horses, as compared to white, was again discussed, and each announced his certainty that nothing less than “a good ole hunderd dollars” would be offered for the return of Whitey.
But immediately after so speaking they fell into another silence, due to sinking feelings. They had spoken loudly and confidently, and yet they knew, somehow, that such things were not to be. According to their knowledge, it was perfectly reasonable to suppose that they would receive this fortune; but they frightened themselves in speaking of it. They knew that they COULD not have a hundred dollars for their own. An oppression, as from something awful and criminal, descended upon them at intervals.
Presently, however, they were warmed to a little cheerfulness again by Penrod's suggestion that they should put a notice in the paper. Neither of them had the slightest idea how to get it there; but such details as that were beyond the horizon; they occupied themselves with the question of what their advertisement ought to “say”. Finding that they differed irreconcilably, Penrod went to his cache in the sawdust-box and brought two pencils and a supply of paper. He gave one of the pencils and several sheets to Sam; then both boys bent themselves in silence to the labour of practical composition. Penrod produced the briefer paragraph. (See Fig. I.) Sam's was more ample. (See Fig. II.) —————————[Transcribed from handwritten illustration for Project Gutenberg:] FIG. I. Reward. White horse in Schofields ally finders got him in Schofields stable and will let him taken away by by (crossed out: pay) paying for good food he has aten while (crossed out: wat w) while (crossed out: wat) waiting and Reward of (crossed out: $100 $20 $15 $5) $10.
FIG II. FOND Horse on Saturday morning owner can get him by (crossed through word, unreadable) replying at stable bhind Mr. Schofield. You will have to proof he is your horse he is whit with hind of brown (crossed out: spec) speks and worout (crossed out: tail) tale, he is geting good care and food, reword (crossed out: $100 $20) sevntyfive cents to each one or we will keep him lokked up.————————
Neither Sam nor Penrod showed any interest in what the other had written; but both felt that something praiseworthy had been accomplished. Penrod exhaled a sigh, as of relief, and, in a manner he had observed his father use sometimes, he said:
“Thank goodness, THAT'S off my mind, anyway!”
“What we goin' do next, Penrod?” Sam asked deferentially, the borrowed manner having some effect upon him.
“I don't know what YOU'RE goin' to do,” Penrod returned, picking up the old cigarbox that had contained the paper and pencils. “I'M goin' to put mine in here, so's it'll come in handy when I haf to get at it.”
“Well, I guess I'll keep mine there, too,” Sam said. Thereupon he deposited his scribbled slip beside Penrod's in the cigarbox, and the box was solemnly returned to the secret place whence it had been taken.
“There, THAT'S 'tended to!” Sam said, and, unconsciously imitating his friend's imitation, he gave forth audibly a breath of satisfaction and relief.
Both boys felt that the financial side of their great affair had been conscientiously looked to, that the question of the reward was settled, and that everything was proceeding in a businesslike manner. Therefore, they were able to turn their attention to another matter.
This was the question of Whitey's next meal. After their exploits of the morning, and the consequent imperilment of Penrod, they decided that nothing more was to be done in apples, vegetables or bread; it was evident that Whitey must be fed from the bosom of nature.
“We couldn't pull enough o' that frostbit ole grass in the yard to feed him,” Penrod said gloomily. “We could work a week and not get enough to make him swaller more'n about twice. All we got this morning, he blew most of it away. He'd try to scoop it in toward his teeth with his lip, and then he'd haf to kind of blow out his breath, and after that all the grass that'd be left was just some wet pieces stickin' to the outsides of his face. Well, and you know how he acted about that maple branch. We can't trust him with branches.”
Sam jumped up.
“Iknow!” he cried. “There's lots of leaves left on the branches. We can give them to him.”
“I just said—”
“I don't mean the branches,” Sam explained. “We'll leave the branches on the trees, but just pull the leaves off the branches and put 'em in the bucket and feed 'em to him out of the bucket.”
Penrod thought this plan worth trying, and for three-quarters of an hour the two boys were busy with the lower branches of various trees in the yard. Thus they managed to supply Whitey with a fair quantity of wet leaves, which he ate in a perfunctory way, displaying little of his earlier enthusiasm. And the work of his purveyors might have been more tedious if it had been less damp, for a boy is seldom bored by anything that involves his staying-out in the rain without protection. The drizzle had thickened; the leaves were heavy with water, and at every jerk the branches sent fat drops over the two collectors. They attained a noteworthy state of sogginess.
Finally, they were brought to the attention of the authorities indoors, and Della appeared upon the back porch.
“Musther Penrod,” she called, “y'r mamma says ye'll c'm in the house this minute an' change y'r shoes an' stockin's an' everythun' else ye got on! D'ye hear me?”
Penrod, taken by surprise and unpleasantly alarmed, darted away from the tree he was depleting and ran for the stable.
“You tell her I'm dry as toast!” he shouted over his shoulder.
Della withdrew, wearing the air of a person gratuitously insulted; and a moment later she issued from the kitchen, carrying an umbrella. She opened it and walked resolutely to the stable.
“She says I'm to bring ye in the house,” said Della, “an' I'm goin' to bring ye!”
Sam had joined Penrod in the carriage-house, and, with the beginnings of an unnamed terror, the two beheld this grim advance. But they did not stay for its culmination. Without a word to each other they hurriedly tiptoed up the stairs to the gloomy loft, and there they paused, listening.
They heard Della's steps upon the carriage-house floor.
“Ah, there's plenty places t'hide in,” they heard her say; “but I'll show ye! She tole me to bring ye, and I'm—”
She was interrupted by a peculiar sound—loud, chilling, dismal, and unmistakably not of human origin. The boys knew it for Whitey's cough; but Della had not their experience. A smothered shriek reached their ears; there was a scurrying noise, and then, with horror, they heard Della's footsteps in the passageway that ran by Whitey's manger. Immediately there came a louder shriek, and even in the anguish of knowing their secret discovered, they were shocked to hear distinctly the words, “O Lard in hivvin!” in the well-known voice of Della. She shrieked again, and they heard the rush of her footfalls across the carriage-house floor. Wild words came from the outer air, and the kitchen door slammed violently. It was all over. She had gone to “tell”.
Penrod and Sam plunged down the stairs and out of the stable. They climbed the back fence and fled up the alley. They turned into Sam's yard, and, without consultation, headed for the cellar doors, nor paused till they found themselves in the farthest, darkest and gloomiest recess of the cellar. There, perspiring, stricken with fear, they sank down upon the earthen floor, with their moist backs against the stone wall.
Thus with boys. The vague apprehensions that had been creeping upon Penrod and Sam all afternoon had become monstrous; the unknown was before them. How great their crime would turn out to be (now that it was in the hands of grown people) they did not know; but, since it concerned a horse, it would undoubtedly be considered of terrible dimensions.
Their plans for a reward, and all the things that had seemed both innocent and practical in the morning, now staggered their minds as manifestations of criminal folly. A new and terrible light seemed to play upon the day's exploits; they had chased a horse belonging to strangers, and it would be said that they deliberately drove him into the stable and there concealed him. They had, in truth, virtually stolen him, and they had stolen food for him. The waning light through the small window above them warned Penrod that his inroads upon the vegetables in his own cellar must soon be discovered. Della, that Nemesis, would seek them in order to prepare them for dinner, and she would find them not. But she would recall his excursion to the cellar, for she had seen him when he came up; and also the truth would be known concerning the loaf of bread. Altogether, Penrod felt that his case was worse than Sam's—until Sam offered a suggestion that roused such horrible possibilities concerning the principal item of their offense that all thought of the smaller indictments disappeared.
“Listen, Penrod,” Sam quavered: “What—what if that—what if that ole horse maybe b'longed to a—policeman!” Sam's imagination was not of the comforting kind. “What'd they—do to us, Penrod, if it turned out he was some policeman's horse?”
Penrod was able only to shake his head. He did not reply in words; but both boys thenceforth considered it almost inevitable that Whitey had belonged to a policeman, and, in their sense of so ultimate a disaster, they ceased for a time to brood upon what their parents would probably do to them. The penalty for stealing a policeman's horse would be only a step short of capital, they were sure. They would not be hanged; but vague, looming sketches of something called the penitentiary began to flicker before them.
It grew darker in the cellar, so that finally they could not see each other.
“I guess they're huntin' for us by now,” Sam said huskily. “I don't—I don't like it much down here, Penrod.”
Penrod's hoarse whisper came from the profound gloom: “Well, who ever said you did?”
“Well—” Sam paused; then he said plaintively, “I wish we'd never SEEN that dern ole horse.”
“It was every bit his fault,” said Penrod. “We didn't do anything. If he hadn't come stickin' his ole head in our stable, it'd never happened at all. Ole fool!” He rose. “I'm goin' to get out of here; I guess I've stood about enough for one day.”
“Where—where you goin', Penrod? You aren't goin' HOME, are you?”
“No; I'm not! What you take me for? You think I'm crazy?”
“Well, where CAN we go?”
How far Penrod's desperation actually would have led him is doubtful; but he made this statement: “I don't know where YOU'RE goin', but I'M goin' to walk straight out in the country till I come to a farmhouse and say my name's George and live there!”
“I'll do it, too,” Sam whispered eagerly. “I'll say my name's Henry.”
“Well, we better get started,” said the executive Penrod. “We got to get away from here, anyway.”
But when they came to ascend the steps leading to the “outside doors”, they found that those doors had been closed and locked for the night.
“It's no use,” Sam lamented, “and we can't bust 'em, cause I tried to, once before. Fanny always locks 'em about five o'clock—I forgot. We got to go up the stairway and try to sneak out through the house.”
They tiptoed back, and up the inner stairs. They paused at the top, then breathlessly stepped out into a hall that was entirely dark. Sam touched Penrod's sleeve in warning and bent to listen at a door.
Immediately that door opened, revealing the bright library, where sat Penrod's mother and Sam's father.
It was Sam's mother who had opened the door. “Come into the library, boys,” she said. “Mrs. Schofield is just telling us about it.”
And as the two comrades moved dumbly into the lighted room, Penrod's mother rose, and, taking him by the shoulder, urged him close to the fire.
“You stand there and try to dry off a little, while I finish telling Mr. and Mrs. Williams about you and Sam,” she said. “You'd better make Sam keep near the fire, too, Mrs. Williams, because they both got wringing wet. Think of their running off just when most people would have wanted to stay! Well, I'll go on with the story, then. Della told me all about it, and what the cook next door said SHE'D seen, how they'd been trying to pull grass and leaves for the poor old thing all day—and all about the apples they carried from YOUR cellar, and getting wet and working in the rain as hard as they could—and they'd given him a loaf of bread! Shame on you, Penrod!” She paused to laugh; but there was a little moisture about her eyes, even before she laughed. “And they'd fed him on potatoes and lettuce and cabbage and turnips out of OUR cellar! And I wish you'd see the sawdust bed they made for him! Well, when I'd telephoned, and the Humane Society man got there, he said it was the most touching thing he ever knew. It seems he KNEW this horse, and had been looking for him. He said ninety-nine boys out of a hundred would have chased the poor old thing away, and he was going to see to it that this case didn't go unnoticed, because the local branch of the society gives little silver medals for special acts like this. And the last thing he said was that he was sure Penrod and Sam each would be awarded one at the meeting of the society next Thursday night.”
... On the following Saturday a yodel sounded from the sunny sidewalk in front of the Schofields' house, and Penrod, issuing forth, beheld the familiar figure of Samuel Williams waiting.
Upon Sam's breast there glittered a round bit of silver suspended by a white ribbon from a bar of the same metal. Upon the breast of Penrod was a decoration precisely similar.
“'Lo, Penrod,” said Sam. “What are you goin' to do?”
“Nothin'”
“I got mine on,” said Sam.
“I have, too,” said Penrod. “I wouldn't take a hunderd dollars for mine.”
“I wouldn't take two hunderd for mine,” said Sam.
Each glanced pleasantly at the other's medal. They faced each other without shame. Neither had the slightest sense of hypocrisy in himself or in his comrade. On the contrary!
Penrod's eyes went from Sam's medal back to his own; thence they wandered, with perhaps a little disappointment, to the lifeless street and to the empty yards and spectatorless windows of the neighbourhood. Then he looked southward toward the busy heart of the town, where multitudes were.
“Let's go down and see what time it is by the court-house-clock,” said Penrod.
Mrs. Schofield had been away for three days, visiting her sister in Dayton, Illinois, and on the train, coming back, she fell into a reverie. Little dramas of memory were reenacted in her pensive mind, and through all of them moved the figure of Penrod as a principal figure, or star. These little dramas did not present Penrod as he really was, much less did they glow with the uncertain but glamorous light in which Penrod saw himself. No; Mrs. Schofield had indulged herself in absence from her family merely for her own pleasure, and, now that she was homeward bound, her conscience was asserting itself; the fact that she had enjoyed her visit began to take on the aspect of a crime.
She had heard from her family only once during the three days—the message “All well don't worry enjoy yourself” telegraphed by Mr. Schofield, and she had followed his suggestions to a reasonable extent. Of course she had worried—but only at times; wherefore she now suffered more and more poignant pangs of shame because she had not worried constantly. Naturally, the figure of Penrod, in her railway reverie, was that of an invalid.
She recalled all the illnesses of his babyhood and all those of his boyhood. She reconstructed scene after scene, with the hero always prostrate and the family physician opening the black case of phials. She emphatically renewed her recollection of accidental misfortunes to the body of Penrod Schofield, omitting neither the considerable nor the inconsiderable, forgetting no strain, sprain, cut, bruise or dislocation of which she had knowledge. And running this film in a sequence unrelieved by brighter interludes, she produced a biographical picture of such consistent and unremittent gloom that Penrod's past appeared to justify disturbing thoughts about his present and future.
She became less and less at ease, reproaching herself for having gone away, wondering how she had brought herself to do such a crazy thing, for it seemed to her that the members of her family were almost helpless without her guidance; they were apt to do anything—anything at all—or to catch anything. The more she thought about her having left these irresponsible harebrains unprotected and undirected for three days, the less she was able to account for her action. It seemed to her that she must have been a little flighty; but, shaking her head grimly, she decided that flightiness was not a good excuse. And she made up her mind that if, upon her arrival, she found poor little neglected Penrod (and Margaret and Mr. Schofield) spared to her, safe and sound, she would make up to them—especially to Penrod—for all her lack of care in the past, and for this present wild folly of spending three whole days and nights with her sister, far away in Dayton, Illinois. Consequently, when Mrs. Schofield descended from that train, she wore the hurried but determined expression that was always the effect upon her of a guilty conscience.
“You're SURE Penrod is well now?” she repeated, after Mr. Schofield had seated himself at her side in a vehicle known to its driver as a “deepoe hack”.
“'Well NOW?'” he said. “He's been well all the time. I've told you twice that he's all right.”
“Men can't always see.” She shook her head impatiently. “I haven't been a bit sure he was well lately. I don't think he's been really well for two or three months. How has he seemed to-day?”
“In fair health,” Mr. Schofield replied thoughtfully. “Della called me up at the office to tell me that one of the telephone-men had come into the house to say that if that durn boy didn't quit climbing their poles they'd have him arrested. They said he—”
“That's it!” Mrs. Schofield interrupted quickly. “He's nervous. It's some nervous trouble makes him act like that. He's not like himself at all.”
“Sometimes,” Mr. Schofield said, “I wish he weren't.”
“When he's himself,” Mrs. Schofield went on anxiously, “he's very quiet and good; he doesn't go climbing telegraph-poles and reckless things like that. And I noticed before I went away that he was growing twitchy, and seemed to be getting the habit of making unpleasant little noises in his throat.”
“Don't fret about that,” her husband said. “He was trying to learn Sam Williams's imitation of a bullfrog's croak. I used to do that myself when I was a boy. Gl-glump, gallump! No; I can't do it now. But nearly all boys feel obliged to learn it.”
“You're entirely mistaken, Henry,” she returned a little sharply. “That isn't the way he goes in his throat. Penrod is getting to be a VERY nervous boy, and he makes noises because he can't help it. He works part of his face, too, sometimes, so much that I've been afraid it would interfere with his looks.”
“Interfere with his what?” For the moment, Mr. Schofield seemed to be dazed.
“When he's himself,” she returned crisply, “he's quite a handsome boy.”
“He is?”
“Handsomer than the average, anyhow,” Mrs. Schofield said firmly. “No wonder you don't see it—when we've let his system get all run down like this!”
“Good heavens!” the mystified Mr. Schofield murmured. “Penrod's system hasn't been running down; it's just the same as it always was. He's absolutely all right.”
“Indeed he is not!” she said severely. “We've got to take better care of him than we have been.”
“Why, how could—”
“I know what I'm talking about,” she interrupted. “Penrod is anything but a strong boy, and it's all our fault. We haven't been watchful enough of his health; that's what's the matter with him and makes him so nervous.”
Thus she continued, and, as she talked on, Mr. Schofield began, by imperceptible processes, to adopt her views. As for Mrs. Schofield herself, these views became substantial by becoming vocal. This is to say, with all deference, that as soon as she heard herself stating them she was convinced that they accurately represented facts. And the determined look in her eyes deepened when the “deepoe hack” turned the familiar corner and she saw Penrod running to the gate, followed by Duke.
Never had Penrod been so glad to greet his mother. Never was he more boisterous in the expression of happiness of that kind. And the tokens of his appetite at dinner, a little later, were extraordinary. Mr. Schofield began to feel reassured in spite of himself; but Mrs. Schofield shook her head.
“Don't you see? It's abnormal!” she said, in a low, decisive voice.
That night Penrod awoke from a sweet, conscienceless slumber—or, rather, he was awakened. A wrappered form lurked over him in the gloom.
“Uff—ow—” he muttered, and turned his face from the dim light that shone through the doorway. He sighed and sought the depths of sleep again.
“Penrod,” his mother said softly, and, while he resisted feebly, she turned him over to face her.
“Gawn lea' me 'lone,” he muttered.
Then, as a little sphere touched his lips, he jerked his head away, startled.
“Whassat?”
Mrs. Schofield replied in tones honeysweet and coaxing: “It's just a nice little pill, Penrod.”
“Doe waw 'ny!” he protested, keeping his eyes shut, clinging to the sleep from which he was being riven.
“Be a good boy, Penrod,” she whispered. “Here's a glass of nice cool water to swallow it down with. Come, dear; it's going to do you lots of good.”
And again the little pill was placed suggestively against his lips; but his head jerked backward, and his hand struck out in blind, instinctive self-defense.
“I'll BUST that ole pill,” he muttered, still with closed eyes. “Lemme get my han's on it an' I will!”
“Penrod!”
“PLEASE go on away, mamma!”
“I will, just as soon as you take this little pill.”
“I DID!”
“No, dear.”
“I did,” Penrod insisted plaintively. “You made me take it just before I went to bed.”
“Oh, yes; THAT one. But, dearie,” Mrs. Schofield explained, “I got to thinking about it after I went to bed, and I decided you'd better have another.”
“I don't WANT another.”
“Yes, dearie.”
“Please go 'way and let me sleep.”
“Not till you've taken the little pill, dear.”
“Oh, GOLLY!” Groaning, he propped himself upon an elbow and allowed the pill to pass between his lips. (He would have allowed anything whatever to pass between them, if that passing permitted his return to slumber.) Then, detaining the pill in his mouth, he swallowed half a glass of water, and again was recumbent.
“G'-night, Mamma.”
“Good-night, dearie. Sleep well.”
“Yes'm.”
After her departure Penrod drowsily enjoyed the sugar coating of the pill; but this was indeed a brief pleasure. A bitterness that was like a pang suddenly made itself known to his sense of taste, and he realized that he had dallied too confidingly with the product of a manufacturing chemist who should have been indicted for criminal economy. The medicinal portion of the little pill struck the wall with a faint tap, then dropped noiselessly to the floor, and, after a time, Penrod slept.
Some hours later he began to dream; he dreamed that his feet and legs were becoming uncomfortable as a result of Sam Williams's activities with a red-hot poker.
“You QUIT that!” he said aloud, and awoke indignantly. Again a dark, wrappered figure hovered over the bed.
“It's only a hot-water bag, dear,” Mrs. Schofield said, still labouring under the covers with an extended arm. “You mustn't hunch yourself up that way, Penrod. Put your feet down on it.”
And, as he continued to hunch himself, she moved the bag in the direction of his withdrawal.
“Ow, murder!” he exclaimed convulsively. “What you tryin' to do? Scald me to death?”
“Penrod—”
“My goodness, Mamma,” he wailed; “can't you let me sleep a MINUTE?”
“It's very bad for you to let your feet get cold, dear.”
“They WEREN'T cold. I don't want any ole hot-wat—”
“Penrod,” she said firmly, “you must put your feet against the bag. It isn't too hot.”
“Oh, isn't it?” he retorted. “I don't s'pose you'd care if I burned my feet right off! Mamma, won't you please, pul-LEEZE let me get some sleep?”
“Not till you—”
She was interrupted by a groan that seemed to come from an abyss.
“All right, I'll do it! Let 'em burn, then!” Thus spake the desperate Penrod; and Mrs. Schofield was able to ascertain that one heel had been placed in light contact with the bag.
“No; both feet, Penrod.”
With a tragic shiver he obeyed.
“THAT'S right, dear! Now, keep them that way. It's good for you. Good-night.”
“G'-night!”
The door closed softly behind her, and the body of Penrod, from the hips upward, rose invisibly in the complete darkness of the bedchamber. A moment later the hot-water bag reached the floor in as noiseless a manner as that previously adopted by the remains of the little pill, and Penrod once more bespread his soul with poppies. This time he slept until the breakfast-bell rang.
He was late to school, and at once found himself in difficulties. Government demanded an explanation of the tardiness; but Penrod made no reply of any kind. Taciturnity is seldom more strikingly out of place than under such circumstances, and the penalties imposed took account not only of Penrod's tardiness but of his supposititious defiance of authority in declining to speak. The truth was that Penrod did not know why he was tardy, and, with mind still lethargic, found it impossible to think of an excuse his continuing silence being due merely to the persistence of his efforts to invent one. Thus were his meek searchings misinterpreted, and the unloved hours of improvement in science and the arts made odious.
“They'll SEE!” he whispered sorely to himself, as he bent low over his desk, a little later. Some day he would “show 'em”. The picture in his mind was of a vast, vague assembly of people headed by Miss Spence and the superior pupils who were never tardy, and these multitudes, representing persecution and government in general, were all cringing before a Penrod Schofield who rode a grim black horse up and down their miserable ranks, and gave curt orders.
“Make 'em step back there!” he commanded his myrmidons savagely. “Fix it so's your horses'll step on their feet if they don't do what I say!” Then, from his shining saddle, he watched the throngs slinking away. “I guess they know who I am NOW!”
These broodings helped a little; but it was a severe morning, and on his way home at noon he did not recover heart enough to practice the bullfrog's croak, the craft that Sam Williams had lately mastered to inspiring perfection. This sonorous accomplishment Penrod had determined to make his own. At once guttural and resonant, impudent yet plaintive, with a barbaric twang like the plucked string of a Congo war-fiddle, the sound had fascinated him. It is made in the throat by processes utterly impossible to describe in human words, and no alphabet as yet produced by civilized man affords the symbols to vocalize it to the ear of imagination. “Gunk” is the poor makeshift that must be employed to indicate it.
Penrod uttered one half-hearted “Gunk” as he turned in at his own gate. However, this stimulated him, and he paused to practice. “Gunk!” he croaked. “Gunk-gunk-gunk-gunk!”
Mrs. Schofield leaned out of an open window upstairs.
“Don't do that, Penrod,” she said anxiously. “Please don't do that.”
“Why not?” Penrod asked, and, feeling encouraged by his progress in the new art, he continued: “Gunk—gunk-gunk! Gunk-gunk—”
“Please try not to do it,” she urged pleadingly. “You CAN stop it if you try. Won't you, dear?”
But Penrod felt that he was almost upon the point of attaining a mastery equal to Sam Williams's. He had just managed to do something in his throat that he had never done before, and he felt that unless he kept on doing it at this time, his new-born facility might evade him later. “Gunk!” he croaked. “Gunk—gunk-gunk!” And he continued to croak, persevering monotonously, his expression indicating the depth of his preoccupation.
His mother looked down solicitously, murmured in a melancholy undertone, shook her head; then disappeared from the window, and, after a moment or two, opened the front door.
“Come in, dear,” she said; “I've got something for you.”
Penrod's look of preoccupation vanished; he brightened and ceased to croak. His mother had already given him a small leather pocketbook with a nickel in it, as a souvenir of her journey. Evidently she had brought another gift as well, delaying its presentation until now. “I've got something for you!” These were auspicious words.
“What is it, Mamma?” he asked, and, as she smiled tenderly upon him, his gayety increased. “Yay!” he shouted. “Mamma, is it that reg'lar carpenter's tool chest I told you about?”
“No,” she said. “But I'll show you, Penrod. Come on, dear.”
He followed her with alacrity to the dining-room, and the bright anticipation in his eyes grew more brilliant—until she opened the door of the china-closet, simultaneously with that action announcing cheerily:
“It's something that's going to do you lots of good, Penrod.”
He was instantly chilled, for experience had taught him that when predictions of this character were made, nothing pleasant need be expected. Two seconds later his last hope departed as she turned from the closet and he beheld in her hands a quart bottle containing what appeared to be a section of grassy swamp immersed in a cloudy brown liquor. He stepped back, grave suspicion in his glance.
“What IS that?” he asked, in a hard voice.
Mrs. Schofield smiled upon him. “It's nothing,” she said. “That is, it's nothing you'll mind at all. It's just so you won't be so nervous.”
“I'm not nervous.”
“You don't think so, of course, dear,” she returned, and, as she spoke, she poured some of the brown liquor into a tablespoon. “People often can't tell when they're nervous themselves; but your Papa and I have been getting a little anxious about you, dear, and so I got this medicine for you.”
“WHERE'D you get it?” he demanded.
Mrs. Schofield set the bottle down and moved toward him, insinuatingly extending the full tablespoon.
“Here, dear,” she said; “just take this little spoonful, like a goo—”
“I want to know where it came from,” he insisted darkly, again stepping backward.
“Where?” she echoed absently, watching to see that nothing was spilled from the spoon as she continued to move toward him. “Why, I was talking to old Mrs. Wottaw at market this morning, and she said her son Clark used to have nervous trouble, and she told me about this medicine and how to have it made at the drug store. She told me it cured Clark, and—”
“I don't want to be cured,” Penrod said, adding inconsistently, “I haven't got anything to be cured of.”
“Now, dear,” Mrs. Schofield began, “you don't want your papa and me to keep on worrying about—”
“I don't care whether you worry or not,” the heartless boy interrupted. “I don't want to take any horrable ole medicine. What's that grass and weeds in the bottle for?”
Mrs. Schofield looked grieved. “There isn't any grass and there aren't any weeds; those are healthful herbs.”
“I bet they'll make me sick.”
She sighed. “Penrod, we're trying to make you well.”
“But I AM well, I tell you!”
“No, dear; your papa's been very much troubled about you. Come, Penrod; swallow this down and don't make such a fuss about it. It's just for your own good.”
And she advanced upon him again, the spoon extended toward his lips. It almost touched them, for he had retreated until his back was against the wall-paper. He could go no farther; but he evinced his unshaken repugnance by averting his face.
“What's it taste like?” he demanded.
“It's not unpleasant at all,” she answered, poking the spoon at his mouth. “Mrs. Wottaw said Clark used to be very fond of it. It doesn't taste like ordinary medicine at all,' she said.”
“How often I got to take it?” Penrod mumbled, as the persistent spoon sought to enter his mouth. “Just this once?”
“No, dear; three times a day.”
“I won't do it!”
“Penrod!” She spoke sharply. “You swallow this down and stop making such a fuss. I can't be all day. Hurry.”
She inserted the spoon between his lips, so that its rim touched his clenched teeth; he was still reluctant. Moreover, is reluctance was natural and characteristic, for a boy's sense of taste is as simple and as peculiar as a dog's, though, of course, altogether different from a dog's. A boy, passing through the experimental age, may eat and drink astonishing things; but they must be of his own choosing. His palate is tender, and, in one sense, might be called fastidious; nothing is more sensitive or more easily shocked. A boy tastes things much more than grown people taste them: what is merely unpleasant to a man is sheer broth of hell to a boy. Therefore, not knowing what might be encountered, Penrod continued to be reluctant.
“Penrod,” his mother exclaimed, losing patience, “I'll call your papa to make you take it, if you don't swallow it right down! Open your mouth, Penrod! It isn't going to taste bad at all. Open your mouth—THERE!”
The reluctant jaw relaxed at last, and Mrs. Schofield dexterously elevated the handle of the spoon so that the brown liquor was deposited within her son.
“There!” she repeated triumphantly. “It wasn't so bad after all, was it?”
Penrod did not reply. His expression had become odd, and the oddity of his manner was equal to that of his expression. Uttering no sound, he seemed to distend, as if he had suddenly become a pneumatic boy under dangerous pressure. Meanwhile, his reddening eyes, fixed awfully upon his mother, grew unbearable.
“Now, it wasn't such a bad taste,” Mrs. Schofield said rather nervously. “Don't go acting THAT way, Penrod!”
But Penrod could not help himself. In truth, even a grown person hardened to all manner of flavours, and able to eat caviar or liquid Camembert, would have found the cloudy brown liquor virulently repulsive. It contained in solution, with other things, the vital element of surprise, for it was comparatively odourless, and, unlike the chivalrous rattlesnake, gave no warning of what it was about to do. In the case of Penrod, the surprise was complete and its effect visibly shocking.
The distention by which he began to express his emotion appeared to be increasing; his slender throat swelled as his cheeks puffed. His shoulders rose toward his ears; he lifted his right leg in an unnatural way and held it rigidly in the air.
“Stop that, Penrod!” Mrs. Schofield commanded. “You stop it!”
He found his voice.
“Uff! OOOFF!” he said thickly, and collapsed—a mere, ordinary, every-day convulsion taking the place of his pneumatic symptoms. He began to writhe, at the same time opening and closing his mouth rapidly and repeatedly, waving his arms, stamping on the floor.
“Ow! Ow-ow-OW!” he vociferated.
Reassured by these normal demonstrations, of a type with which she was familiar, Mrs. Schofield resumed her fond smile.
“YOU'RE all right, little boysie!” she said heartily. Then, picking up the bottle, she replenished the tablespoon, and told Penrod something she had considered it undiplomatic to mention before.
“Here's the other one,” she said sweetly.
“Uuf!” he sputtered. “Other—uh—what?”
“Two tablespoons before each meal,” she informed him.
Instantly Penrod made the first of a series of passionate efforts to leave the room. His determination was so intense and the manifestations of it were so ruthless, that Mrs. Schofield, exhausted, found herself obliged to call for the official head of the house—in fact, she found herself obliged to shriek for him; and Mr. Schofield, hastily entering the room, beheld his wife apparently in the act of sawing his son back and forth across the sill of an open window.
Penrod made a frantic effort to reach the good green earth, even after his mother's clutch upon his ankle had been reenforced by his father's. Nor was the lad's revolt subdued when he was deposited upon the floor and the window closed. Indeed, it may be said that he actually never gave up, though it is a fact that the second potion was successfully placed inside him. But by the time this feat was finally accomplished, Mr. Schofield had proved that, in spite of middle age, he was entitled to substantial claims and honours both as athlete and orator—his oratory being founded less upon the school of Webster and more upon that of Jeremiah.
So the thing was done, and the double dose put within the person of Penrod Schofield. It proved not ineffective there, and presently, as its new owner sat morosely at table, he began to feel slightly dizzy and his eyes refused him perfect service. This was natural, because two tablespoons of the cloudy brown liquor contained about the amount of alcohol to be found in an ordinary cocktail. Now a boy does not enjoy the effects of intoxication; enjoyment of that kind is obtained only by studious application. Therefore, Penrod spoke of his symptoms complainingly, and even showed himself so vindictive as to attribute them to the new medicine.
His mother made no reply. Instead, she nodded her head as if some inner conviction had proven well founded.
“BILIOUS, TOO,” she whispered to her husband.
That evening, during the half-hour preceding dinner, the dining-room was the scene of another struggle, only a little less desperate than that which had been the prelude to lunch, and again an appeal to the head of the house was found necessary. Muscular activity and a liberal imitation of the jeremiads once more subjugated the rebel—and the same rebellion and its suppression in a like manner took place the following morning before breakfast. But this was Saturday, and, without warning or apparent reason, a remarkable change came about at noon. However, Mr. and Mrs. Schofield were used to inexplicable changes in Penrod, and they missed its significance.
When Mrs. Schofield, with dread in her heart, called Penrod into the house “to take his medicine” before lunch, he came briskly, and took it like a lamb!
“Why, Penrod, that's splendid!” she cried “You see it isn't bad, at all.”
“No'm,” he said meekly. “Not when you get used to it.”
“And aren't you ashamed, making all that fuss?” she went on happily.
“Yes'm, I guess so.”
“And don't you feel better? Don't you see how much good it's doing you already?”
“Yes'm, I guess so.”
Upon a holiday morning, several weeks later, Penrod and Sam Williams revived a pastime that they called “drug store”, setting up display counters, selling chemical, cosmetic and other compounds to imaginary customers, filling prescriptions and variously conducting themselves in a pharmaceutical manner. They were in the midst of affairs when Penrod interrupted his partner and himself with a cry of recollection.
“Iknow!” he shouted. “I got some mighty good ole stuff we want. You wait!” And, dashing to the house, he disappeared.
Returning immediately, Penrod placed upon the principal counter of the “drug store” a large bottle. It was a quart bottle, in fact; and it contained what appeared to be a section of grassy swamp immersed in a cloudy brown liquor.
“There!” Penrod exclaimed. “How's that for some good ole medicine?”
“It's good ole stuff,” Sam said approvingly. “Where'd you get it? Whose is it, Penrod?”
“It WAS mine,” said Penrod. “Up to about serreval days ago, it was. They quit givin' it to me. I had to take two bottles and a half of it.”
“What did you haf to take it for?”
“I got nervous, or sumpthing,” said Penrod.
“You all well again now?”
“I guess so. Uncle Passloe and cousin Ronald came to visit, and I expect she got too busy to think about it, or sumpthing. Anyway, she quit makin' me take it, and said I was lots better. She's forgot all about it by this time.”
Sam was looking at the bottle with great interest.
“What's all that stuff in there, Penrod?” he asked. “What's all that stuff in there looks like grass?”
“It IS grass,” said Penrod.
“How'd it get there?”
“I stuck it in there,” the candid boy replied. “First they had some horrable ole stuff in there like to killed me. But after they got three doses down me, I took the bottle out in the yard and cleaned her all out and pulled a lot o' good ole grass and stuffed her pretty full and poured in a lot o' good ole hydrant water on top of it. Then, when they got the next bottle, I did the same way, and—”
“It don't look like water,” Sam objected.
Penrod laughed a superior laugh.
“Oh, that's nothin',” he said, with the slight swagger of young and conscious genius. “Of course, I had to slip in and shake her up sometimes, so's they wouldn't notice.”
“But what did you put in it to make it look like that?”
Penrod, upon the point of replying, happened to glance toward the house. His gaze, lifting, rested for a moment upon a window. The head of Mrs. Schofield was framed in that window. She nodded gayly to her son. She could see him plainly, and she thought that he seemed perfectly healthy, and as happy as a boy could be. She was right.
“What DID you put in it?” Sam insisted.
And probably it was just as well that, though Mrs. Schofield could see her son, the distance was too great for her to hear him.
“Oh, nothin',” Penrod replied. “Nothin' but a little good ole mud.”