 Chapter 15 of Penrod and Sam This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Jonathan Burchard, April 2009. Penrod and Sam by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 15. A Model Letter to a Friend. On Monday morning, Penrod's faith in the coming of another Saturday was flaccid and lusterless. Those Japanese lovers who were promised a reunion after 10,000 years in separate hells were brighter with hope than he was. On Monday, Penrod was virtually an agnostic. Nowhere upon his shining morning face could have been read any eager anticipation of useful knowledge. Of course, he had been told that school was for his own good. In fact, he had been told and told and told. But the words conveying this information, meaningless at first, assumed, with each repetition, more and more the character of dull and unsolicited insult. He was wholly unable to imagine circumstances, present or future, under which any of the instruction and training he was now receiving could be of the slightest possible use or benefit to himself. And when he was informed that such circumstances would frequently arise in his later life, he but felt the slur upon his coming manhood and its power to prevent any such unpleasantness. If it were possible to place a romantic young Broadway actor and athlete under hushing supervision for six hours a day, compelling him to bend his unremittant attention upon the city directory of Sheboygan, Wisconsin, he could scarce be expected to respond genially to frequent statements that the compulsion was all for his own good. On the contrary, it might be reasonable to conceive his response as taking the form of action, which is precisely the form that Penrod's smoldering impulse year into take. To Penrod, school was merely a state of confinement, inventing by mathematics. For interminable periods, he was forced to listen to information concerning matters about which he had no curiosity whatever, and he had to read over and over the dullest passages in books that bored him into stupors, while always there overhung the preposterous task of improvising plausible evasions to conceal the fact that he did not know what he had no wish to know. Likewise, he must always be prepared to avoid incriminating replies to questions that he felt nobody had a real and natural right to ask him. And when his gorge rose and his inwards revolted, the hours became a series of ignoble misadventures and petty disgraces strikingly lacking in privacy. It was usually upon Wednesday that his sufferings culminated. The nervous strength accumulated during the holiday hours at the end of the week would carry him through Monday and Tuesday, but by Wednesday it seemed ultimately proven that the next Saturday actually never was coming this time. And the strained spirit gave way. Wednesday was the day averaging highest in Penrod's list of absences, but the time came when he felt that the advantages attended upon his Wednesday's sick headache did not compensate for its inconveniences. For one thing, this illness had been so symmetrically recurrent that even the cook felt he was pushing it too far, and the liveliness of her expression when he was able to leave his couch and take the air in the backyard at about ten o'clock became more disagreeable to him with each convalescence. There visibly increased too, about the whole house, an atmosphere of uncongeniality and suspicion so pronounced that every successive illness was necessarily more severe, and at last the patient felt obliged to remain bedded until almost eleven, from time to time giving forth pathetic little sounds eloquent of anguished triumphing over stoic endurance, yet lacking a certain conviction of utterance. Finally, his father enacted and his mother applied a new and distinctly special bit of legislation, explaining it with simple candor to the prospective beneficiary. Whenever you really ARE sick, they said, you can go out and play as soon as you're well, that is, if it happens on Saturday, but when you're sick on a school day, you'll stay in bed till the next morning. This is going to do you good, Penrod. Physically, their opinion appeared to be affirmed, for Wednesday after Wednesday passed without any recurrence of the attack, but the spiritual strain may have been damaging, and it should be added that if Penrod's higher nature did not suffer from the strain, he was not unique. For confirming the effects of Wednesday upon boys in general, it is probable that if full statistics concerning cats were available, they would show that cats dread Wednesdays and that their fear is shared by other animals, and would be shared to an extent by windows if windows possessed nervous systems. Nor must this probable apprehension on the part of cats and the like be thought mere superstition. Cats have superstitions, it is true, but certain actions inspired by the sight of a boy with a missile in his hand are better evidence of the workings of logic upon a practical nature than a faith in the supernatural. Moreover, the attention of family physicians and specialists should be drawn to these significant though obscure phenomena, for the suffering of cats is a barometer of the nerve pressure of boys, and it may be accepted as sufficiently established that Wednesday after school hours is the worst time for cats. After the promulgation of that parental edict, you'll stay in bed till the next morning, four weeks went by unflawed by a single absence from the field of duty. But when the fifth Wednesday came, Penrod held sore debate within himself before he finally rose. In fact, after rising and while actually engaged with his toilet, he tentatively emitted the series of little moans that was his wanted preliminary to a quiet holiday at home, and the sound was heard as intended by Mr. Schofield, who was passing Penrod's door on his way to breakfast. All right, the father said, making use of peculiar and unnecessary emphasis, stay in bed till tomorrow morning, castor oil this time too. Penrod had not hoped much for his experiment. Nevertheless, his rebellious blood was sensibly inflamed by the failure, and he accompanied his dressing with a low murmuring, apparently a bitter dialogue between himself and some unknown but powerful patron. Thus he muttered, well, they better not. Well, what can I do about it? Well, I'd show them. Well, I will show them. Well, you ought to show them. That's the way I do. Just shake them around and say here, I guess you don't know who you're talking to like that. You better look out. Well, that's the way I'm going to do. Well, go on and do it then. Well, I am going. The door of the next room was slightly ajar. Now it swung wide and Margaret appeared. Penrod, what on earth are you talking about? Nothing. None of you. Well, hurry to breakfast then. It's getting late. Lightly she went humming a tune, leaving the door of her room open, and the eyes of Penrod, as he donned his jacket, a chance to fall upon her desk, where she had thoughtlessly left a letter. A private missive just begun and intended solely for the eyes of Mr. Robert Williams, a senior at a far university. In such a fashion is coincidence the architect of misfortune. Penrod's class in English composition had been instructed the previous day to concoct at home and bring to class on Wednesday morning a model letter to a friend on some subject of general interest. Penalty for a mission to perform this simple task was definite. Whosoever brought no letter would inevitably be kept in after school that afternoon until the letter was written, and it was precisely a premonition of this misfortune that had prompted Penrod to attempt his experimental moaning upon his father, for alas, he had equipped himself with no model letter, nor any letter whatever. In stress of this kind, a boy's creed is that anything is worth a try, but his eye for details is poor. He sees the future too sweepingly, and too much as he would have it, seldom providing against inconsistencies of evidence that may damage him. For instance, there is a well-known case of two brothers who exhibited to their parents with pathetic confidence, several imported dried herring on a string, as a proof that the afternoon had been spent not at a forbidden circus, but with a hook and line upon the banks of a neighboring brook, so with Penrod. He had vital need of a letter, and there before his eyes upon Margaret's desk was apparently the precise thing he needed. From below rose the voice of his mother urging him to the breakfast table, warning him that he stood in danger of tardiness at school. He was pressed for time, and acted upon an inspiration that failed to prompt him even to read the letter. Hurryedly, he wrote, Dear friend, at the top of the page Margaret had partially filled. Then he signed himself, yours respectfully, Penrod Scofield, at the bottom, and enclosed the missive within a battered volume entitled, Principles of English Composition. With that and other books compacted by a strap, he descended to a breakfast somewhat oppressive but undarkened by any misgivings concerning a letter to a friend on some subject of general interest. He felt that a difficulty had been encountered and satisfactorily disposed of. The matter could now be dismissed from his mind. He had plenty of other difficulties to take its place. No, he had no misgivings, nor was he assailed by anything unpleasant in that line, even when the hour struck for the class in English composition. If he had been two or three years older, experience might have warned him to take at least the precaution of copying his offering so that it would appear in his own handwriting when he handed it in. But Penrod had not even glanced at it. I think, Miss Spence said, I will ask several of you to read your letters aloud before you hand them in. Clara Rapal, you may read yours. Penrod was bored, but otherwise comfortable. He had no apprehension that he might be included in the several, especially as Miss Spence's beginning with Clara Rapal, a star performer, indicated that her selection of readers would be made from the conscientious and proficient division at the head of the class. He listened stoically to the beginning of the first letter, though he was conscious of a dull resentment inspired mainly by the perfect complacency of Miss Rapal's voice. Dear cousin Sadie, she began smoothly. I thought I would write you today on some subject of general interest, and so I thought I would tell you about the subject of our courthouse. It is a very fine building situated in the center of the city and a visit to the building after school hours well repays for the visit. Upon entrance we find upon our left the office of the county clerk, and upon our right a number of windows affording a view of the street. And so we proceed, finding on both sides much of general interest. The building was begun in 1886 A.D., and it was through in 1887 A.D. It is four stories high and made of stone, pressed brick, wood, and tiles with a tower or capola 127 feet 7 inches from the ground. For among other subjects of general interest told by the janitor, we learn that the architect of the building was a man named Flanner, and the foundations extend 15 feet 5 inches under the ground. Penrod was unable to fix his attention upon these statistics. He began moodily to twist a button of his jacket, and to concentrate a newborn and obscure but lasting hatred upon the courthouse. Ms. Rapehole's glib voice continued to press upon his ears, but by keeping his eyes fixed upon the twisting button he had accomplished a kind of self-hypnosis, or mental anesthesia, and was but dimly aware of what went on about him. The courthouse was finally exhausted by its visitor, who resumed her seat and submitted with beamish grace to praise. Then Ms. Spence said in a favorable manner, Georgie Bassett, you may read your letter next. The neat Georgie rose nothing low than began. Dear teacher! There was a slight titter which Ms. Spence suppressed. Georgie was not at all discomfited. My mother says, he continued reading his manuscript, we should treat our teacher as a friend, and so I will write you a letter. This penetrated Penrod's trance, and he lifted his eyes to fix them upon the back of Georgie Bassett's head in a long and inscrutable stare. It was inscrutable, and yet if Georgie had been sensitive to thought waves, it is probable that he would have uttered a loud shriek, but he remained placidly unaware, continuing. I thought I would write you about a subject of general interest, and so I will write you about the flowers. There are many kinds of flowers, spring flowers, and summer flowers, and autumn flowers, but no winter flowers. Wild flowers grow in the woods, and it is nice to hunt them in springtime, and we must remember to give some to the poor and hospitals also. Flowers can be made to grow in flower beds and placed in vases in houses. There are many names for flowers, but I call them nature's ornaments. Penrod's gaze had relaxed, drooped to his button again, and his lethargy was renewed. The outer world grew vaguer, voices seemed to drone at a distance, sluggish time passed heavily, but some of it did pass. Penrod! Miss Spence's searching eye had taken note of the bent head and the twisting button. She found it necessary to speak again. Penrod, Scofield! He came languidly to life. Ma'am, you may read your letter. Yes, ma'am, and he began to paw clumsily among his books, whereupon Miss Spence's glance fired with suspicion. Have you prepared one? she demanded. Yes, ma'am, said Penrod dreamily. But you're going to find you forgot to bring it, aren't you? I got it, said Penrod, discovering the paper in his principles of English composition. Well, we'll listen to what you have found time to prepare, she said, adding coldly, for once. The Frankish pessimism concerning Penrod permeated the whole room, even the eyes of those whose letters had not met with favor turned upon him with obvious assurance that there was every prospect of a performance that would, by comparison, lend a measure of credit to the worst preceding it. But Penrod was unaffected by the general gaze. He rose, still blinking from his lethargy, and in no true sense, holy alive. He had one idea, to read as rapidly as possible, so as to be done with the task, and he began in a high-pitched monotone, reading with a blind mind and no sense of the significance of the words. Dear friend, he declaimed, you call me beautiful and I am not really beautiful, and there are times when I doubt I am even pretty, though perhaps my hair is beautiful, and if it is true that my eyes are like blue stars in heaven. Simultaneously he lost his breath, and there burst upon him a perception of the results to which he was being committed by this calamitous reading, and also simultaneous the outbreak of the class into casinations of delight, severely repressed by the perplexed but indignant misspence. Go on, she demanded grimly, when she had restored order. Ma'am, he gulped, looking wretchedly about the rosy faces all about him. Go on with the descriptions of yourself, she said. We'd like to hear some more about your eyes being like blue stars in heaven. Here, many of Penrod's little comrades were forced to clasp their faces tightly in both hands, and his dismayed gaze in refuge sought the treacherous paper in his hand. What it beheld there was horrible. Proceed, his spence said. I often think, he faltered, that a tree morphed the thrills by being when I recall your last words to me, that last that last that go on, that last evening in the moonlight when you you Penrod, misspence said dangerously, you go on and stop that stammering. You said you would not wait for years to to to Penrod to win me, the miserable Penrod managed to gasp. I should not have permitted you to speak so until we have our parents consent, but oh how sweet it he exhaled a sigh of agony and then concluded briskly, yours respectfully Penrod's go-field. But misspence had at last defined something, for she knew the go-field family. Bring me that letter, she said, and the scarlet boy passed forward between rows of mystified but immoderately uplifted children. Misspence herself grew rather pink as she examined the missive, and the intensity with which she afterward extended her examination to cover the complete field of Penrod's go-field caused him to find a remote center of interest whereon to rest his embarrassed gaze. She let him stand before her throughout a silence, unequaled perhaps, by the tensor pauses during trials for murder, and then, containing herself, she sweepingly gestured him to the pillory, a chair upon the platform facing the school. Here he suffered for the unusual term of an hour, with many jocular and cunning eyes constantly upon him, and when he was released at noon, horrid shouts and shrieks pursued him every step of his homeward way, for his laughter-loving little school mates spared him not, neither boy nor girl. Yehey, Penrod, they shouted, how's your beautiful hair? And, hi, Penrod, when you going to get your parents' consent? And, say, blue stars in heaven, how's your beautiful eyes? And, say, Penrod, how's your tree moors? Does your tree moors thrill your being, Penrod? And many other facetious inquiries hard to bear in public. And when he reached the temporary shelter of his home, he experienced no relief upon finding that Margaret was out for lunch. He was as deeply embittered toward her as toward any other, and considering her largely responsible for his misfortune, he would have welcomed an opportunity to show her what he thought of her. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of Penrod and Sam This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard, April 2009, Penrod and Sam, by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 16, Wednesday Madness How long he was kept in after school that afternoon is not a matter of record, but it was long. Before he finally appeared upon the street, he had composed an ample letter on a subject of general interest, namely school life, under the supervision of Miss Spence. He had also received some scorching admonitions in respect to honorable behavior regarding other people's letters, and Margaret's had been returned to him with severe instructions to bear it straight to the original owner accompanied by full confession and apology. As a measure of insurance that these things be done, Miss Spence stated definitely her intention to hold a conversation by telephone with Margaret that evening. Altogether, the day had been unusually awful even for Wednesday, and Penrod left the schoolhouse with the heart of an anarchist throbbing in his hot bosom. It were more accurate indeed to liken him to the anarchist characteristic weapon, for as Penrod came out to the street, he was, in all inward respects, a bomb loaded and ticking. He walked moodily with a visible aspect of soreness. A murmurous sound was thick about his head, wherefor it is to be surmised that he communed with his familiar, and one vehement oft-repeated phrase beat like a toxin of revolt upon the air. DOG. GONNAM. He meant everybody. The universe. Particularly included, evidently, was a sparrow, offensively cheerful upon a lamppost. This self-centered little bird allowed a pebble to pass overhead and remain unconcerned, but a moment later, feeling a jar beneath his feet and hearing the tinkle of falling glass, he decided to leave. Similarly, and at the same instant, Penrod made the same decision, and the sparrow in flight took note of a boy likewise in flight. The boy disappeared into the nearest alley and emerged therefrom breathless in the peaceful vicinity of his own home. He entered the house, clumped upstairs and down, discovered Margaret reading a book in the library, and flung the accursed letter toward her with loathing. You can take the old thing, he said bitterly. I don't want it. And before she was able to reply, he was out of the room. The next moment, he was out of the house. DOG. GONNAM, he said. And then, across the street, his soured eye fell upon his true comrade and best friend, leaning against a picket fence and holding desultory converse with Mabel Rohrbeck, an attractive member of the Friday afternoon dancing class, that hated organization of which Sam and Penrod were both members. Mabel was a shy little girl, but Penrod had a vague understanding that Sam considered her two brown pigtails beautiful. How be it, Sam had never told his love. He was, in fact, sensitive about it. This meeting with the lady was by chance, and although it afforded exquisite moments, his heart was beating in an unaccustomed manner, and he was suffering from embarrassment, being at a loss also for subjects of conversation. It is indeed no easy matter to chat easily with a person, however lovely or beloved, who keeps her face turned toward the other way, maintains one foot in rapid and continuous motion through an arc seemingly perilous to her equilibrium, and confines her responses, both affirmative and negative, to uh-huh. Altogether, Sam was sufficiently nervous without any help from Penrod, and it was with pure horror that he heard his own name and Mabel's shrieked upon the ambient air with viperous insinuation. Sammy and Mabel, uh-oh! Sam started violently. Mabel ceased to swing her foot, and both incarnadined, looked up and down and everywhere for the invisible but well-known owner of that voice. It came again in taunting mockery. Sammy's mad, and I'm glad, and I know what will please him, a bottle of wine to make him shine, and Mabel roared back to squeeze him. Sam, fresh ol' thing, said Miss Rohrbeck, becoming articulate, and unreasonably including Sam in her indignation, she tossed her head at him with unmistakable effect of scorn. She began to walk away. Well, Mabel, Sam said plaintively, following, it ain't my fault, I didn't do anything, it's Penrod. I don't care, she began petishly, when the viperish voice was again lifted. Oh, oh, oh, who's your beau? Guess I know, Mabel and Sammy. Oh, oh, oh, I caught you. Then Mabel did one of those things that eternally perplexed the slower sex. She deliberately made a face, not at the tree behind which Penrod was lurking, but at the innocent and heart-rung Sam. You'd needn't come limping after me, Sam Williams, she said, though Sam was approaching upon two perfectly sound legs, and then she ran away at the top of her speed. Run, Rigger, run, Penrod said inexcusably, but Sam cut the persecution short at this point. Stung to fury, he charged upon the sheltering tree in the Schofields yard. Ordinarily at such a juncture, Penrod would have fled, keeping his own temper and increasing the heat of his pursuers by backflung jeers. But this was Wednesday, and he was in no mood to run from Sam. He stepped away from the tree, awaiting the onset. Well, what you going to do so much, he said. Sam did not pause to proffer the desired information. She got any sense? Was the total extent of his vocal preliminations before flinging himself headlong into the taunter, and the two boys went to the ground together. Embracing they rolled, and they pommeled, they hammered, they kicked. Alas, this was a fight. They rose, flailing a little, then renewed their embrace, and grunting bestowed themselves anew upon our ever-too receptive Mother Earth. Once more upon their feet they beset each other sorely, dealing many great blows, off times upon the air, but with sufficient frequency upon resentful flesh. Tears were jolted to the rims of eyes, but technically they did not weep. Got any sense? Was repeated chokingly many, many times. Also, darn old fool, and I'll show you! The peacemaker who appeared upon the animated scene was Penrod's great-uncle Slocum. This elderly relative had come to call upon Mr. Schofield, and he was well upon his way to the front door when the mutterings of war among some shrubberies near the fence caused him to deflect his course in benevolent agitation. Boys! Boys! Shame boys! He said, but as the originality of these expressions did not prove striking enough to attract any great attention from the combatants, he felt obliged to assume a share in the proceedings. It was a share entailing greater activity than he had anticipated, and before he managed to separate the former friends, he intercepted bodily an amount of violence to which he was wholly unaccustomed. Additionally, his attire was disarranged, his hat was no longer upon his head, and his temper was in a bad way. In fact, as his hat flew off, he made use of words that under less extreme circumstances would have caused both boys to feel a much profounder interest than they did in great-uncle Slocum. I'll get you, Sam Babbled! Don't you ever dare speak to me again, Penrod Schofield! Long as you live, I'll whip you worse than I have this time! Penrod squawked. For the moment, he was incapable of coherent speech, and then, failing in a convulsive attempt to reach his enemy, his fury culminated upon an innocent object that had never done him the slightest harm. Great-uncle Slocum's hat lay upon the ground close by, and Penrod was in the state of irritation that seeks an outlet too blindly. As people say, he had to do something. He kicked Great-uncle Slocum's hat with such sweep and precision that it rose swiftly and, breasting the autumn breeze, passed over the fence and out into the street. Great-uncle Slocum uttered a scream of anguish and, immediately ceasing to peacemake, ran forth to a more important rescue, but the conflict was not renewed. Sanity had returned to Sam Williams. He was awed by this colossal deed of Penrod's and, filled with awe at the horror that he might be held accessory to it, fleetily he fled. Pursued as far as the gate by the whole body of Penrod, and thereafter by Penrod's voice alone, You better run! You wait till I catch you! You'll see what you get next time! Don't you ever speak to me again as long as you— Here he paused abruptly, for Great-uncle Slocum had recovered his hat and was returning toward the gate. After one glance at Great-uncle Slocum, Penrod did not linger to attempt any explanation. There are times when even a boy can see that apologies would seem out of place. Penrod ran around the house to the backyard. Here he was enthusiastically greeted by Duke. You get away from me! Penrod said hoarsely, and with terrible gestures he repulsed the faithful animal, who retired philosophically to the stable, while his master let himself out the back gate. Penrod had decided to absent himself from home for the time being. The sky was grey, and there were hints of coming dusk in the air. It was an hour suited to his turbulent soul, and he walked with a sombre swagger. Ran like a cardy calf, he sniffed, half-aloud alluding to the haste of Sam Williams in departure. All he is, ol' cardy calf, and as he proceeded up the alley, a hated cry smote his ears. Hi, Penrod! How's your tree-mores? And two jovial schoolboy faces appeared above a high-board fence. How's your beautiful hair, Penrod? They were separated. When you're going to get your parents' consent? What makes you think you're only pretty old blue stars? Penrod looked about feverishly for a missile, and could find none to his hand, but the surface of the alley sufficed. He made mudballs and fiercely bombarded the vociferous fence. Naturally, hostile mudballs presently issued from behind this barricade, and thus a campaign had developed that offered a picture not unlike a cartoonish sketch of a political campaign, wherein this same material is used for the decoration of opponents. But Penrod had been unwise. He was outnumbered, and the hostile forces held the advantageous side of the fence. Mudballs can be hard, as well as soggy. Some of those that reached Penrod were of no inconsiderable weight and substance, and they made him grunt despite himself. Finally, one, at close range, struck him in the pit of the stomach, whereupon he clasped himself about the middle silently, and executed some steps in seeming imitation of a quaint Indian dance. His plight being observed through an oddhole, his enemies climbed upon the fence and regarded him seriously. Ah, you are all right, ain't you old tree moors, inquired one? I'll show you, bellowed Penrod, recovering his breath, and he hurled a fat ball, thoughtfully retained in hand throughout his agony, to such effect that his interrogator disappeared backward from the fence without having taken any initiative of his own in the matter. His comrade impulsively joined him on the ground, and the battle continued. Through the gathering dust, it went on. It waged but the hotter as darkness made aim more difficult, and still Penrod would not be driven from the field. Panting, grunting, hoarse for returning insults, fighting on and on, an indistinguishable figure in the gloom, he held the back alley against all comers. For such a combat, darkness has one great advantage. It has an equally important disadvantage. The combatant cannot see to aim. On the other hand, he cannot see to dodge, and all the while Penrod was receiving two for one. He became heavy with mud. Plastered, impressionistic, and sculpture-esque, there was about him a quality of the tragic, of the magnificent. He resembled a somber masterpiece by Rodin. No one could have been quite sure what he was meant for. Dinner bells tinkled in houses. Then they were rung from kitchen doors. Calling voices came urging from the distance, calling boys' names into the darkness. They called, and a note of irritation seemed to mar their beauty. Then bells were rung again, and the voices renewed appeals more urgent, much more irritated. They called, and called, and called. Thud! went the mud balls. Thud! Thud! Blunk! Said Penrod. Sam Williams, having died with his family at their usual hour, seven, slipped unauthentiously out of the kitchen door as soon as he could. After the conclusion of the meal, and quietly he took himself to the Schofields corner. Here he stationed himself where he could see all avenues of approach to the house and waited. Twenty minutes went by, and then Sam became suddenly alert and attentive. For the arc light revealed a small, grotesque figure slowly approaching along the sidewalk. It was brown in color, shaggy and indefinite in form. It limped excessively and paused to rub itself and to meditate. Peculiar as the thing was, Sam had no doubt as to its identity. He advanced. Low Penrod, he said cautiously, and with a shade of formality. Penrod leaned against the fence and, lifting one leg, tested the knee joint by swinging his foot back and forth, a process evidently provocative of a little pain. Then he rubbed the left side of his encrusted face, and, opening his mouth to its whole capacity as an aperture, moved his lower jaw slightly from side to side, thus triumphantly settling a question in his own mind as to whether or no a suspected dislocation had taken place. Having satisfied himself on these points, he examined both shins delicately by the sense of touch, and carefully tested the capacity of his neck muscles to move his head in a wanted manner. Then he responded, somewhat gruffly, low. Where you been? Sam said eagerly, his formality vanishing. Having a mud fight? I guess you did, Sam exclaimed in a low voice. What you going to tell your own nothing? Your sister telephoned to our house to see if I knew where you were, said Sam. She told me if I saw you before you got home to tell you something, but not to say anything about it. She said misspensive telephone to her, but she said for me to tell you it was all right about that letter, and she wasn't going to tell your mother and father on you, so you needn't say anything about it to them. All right, said Penrod indifferently. She says you're going to be in enough trouble without that, Sam went on. You're going to catch fits about your Uncle Slocum's hat, Penrod. Well, I guess I know it, and about not coming home to dinner, too. Your mother telephoned twice to mama while we were eating to see if you'd come in our house, and when they see you, my, but you're going to get the dickens, Penrod. Penrod seemed unimpressed, though he was well aware that Sam's prophecy was no unreasonable one. Well, I guess I know it, he repeated casually, and he moved slowly toward his own gate. His friend looked after him curiously, then as the limping figure fumbled clumsily with Bruce's fingers at the latch of the gate, there sounded a little solicitude in Sam's voice. Say, Penrod, how? How do you feel? What? Do you feel pretty bad? No, said Penrod, and in spite of what awaited him beyond the lighted portals just ahead, he spoke the truth. His nerves were rested, and his soul was at peace. His Wednesday madness was over. No, said Penrod. I feel bully. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Penrod and Sam This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard, April 2009 Penrod and Sam by Booth Tarkington Chapter 17 Penrod's Busy Day Although the pressure had thus been relieved and Penrod found peace with himself, nevertheless there were times during the rest of that week when he felt a strong distaste for Margaret. His schoolmates frequently reminded him of such phrases in her letter as they seemed least able to forget, and for hours after each of these experiences he was unable to comport himself with human courtesy when constrained, as at dinner, to remain for any length of time in the same room with her. But by Sunday these moods had seemed to pass. He attended church in her close company, and had no thought of the troubles brought upon him by her correspondence with a person who throughout remained unknown to him. Penrod slumped far down in the pew with his knees against the back of that in front, and he also languished to one side, so that the people sitting behind were afford of a view of him consisting of a little hair and one bored ear. The sermon, a noble one, searching in eloquent, was but a persistent sound in that ear, though now and then Penrod's attention would be caught by some detached portion of a sentence when his mind would dwell duly upon the phrases for a little while and lapse into a torpor. At intervals his mother, without turning her head, would whisper, Sit up, Penrod! Causing him beside profoundly and move his shoulders about an inch, this mere gesture of compliance exhausting all the energy that remained to him. The black backs and gray heads of the elderly men in the congregation oppressed him. They made him lethargic with a sense of long lives of repellent dullness, but he should have been grateful to the lady with the artificial cherries upon her head. His gaze lingered there and wandered away and hopelessly returned again and again to be a little refreshed by the glossy scarlet of the cluster of tiny globes. He was not so fortunate as to be drowsy, that would have brought him some relief, and yet after a while his eyes became slightly glazed. He saw dimly and what he saw was distorted. The church had been built in the early 70s and it contained some naive stained glass of that period. The arch at the top of a window with a facing Penrod was filled with a gigantic eye. Of oyster white and raw blues and reds inflamed by the pouring sun, it had held an awful place in the infantile life of Penrod Schofield. For in his tender years he accepted it without question as the literal eye of deity. He had been informed that the church was the divine dwelling and there was the eye. Nowadays, being no longer a little child, he had somehow come to know better without being told. And though the great flaming eye was no longer the terrifying thing it had been to him during his childhood, it nevertheless retained something of its ominous character. It made him feel spied upon and its awful glare still pursued him sometimes as he was falling asleep at night. When he faced the window his feeling was one of dull resentment. His own glazed eyes becoming slightly crossed with an ennui that was peculiarly intense this morning rendered the eye more monstrous than it was. It expanded to horrible size, growing mountainous. It turned into a volcano in the tropics and yet it stared at him indubitably an eye implacably hostile to all rights of privacy forever. Penrod blinked and clinched his eyelids to be rid of this dual image and he managed to shake off the volcano. Then lowering the angle of his glance, he saw something most remarkable and curiously out of place. An inverted white soup plate was lying miraculously balanced upon the back of a pew a little distance in front of him and upon the upturned bottom of the soup place was a brown coconut. Mildly surprised, Penrod yawned and in the effort to straighten his eyes came to life temporarily. The coconut was revealed as Georgie bass its head and the soup plate as Georgie's white collar. Georgie was sitting up straight as he always did in church and Penrod found this vertical rectitude unpleasant. He knew that he had more to fear from the eye than Georgie had and he was under the impression a correct one that Georgie felt on intimate terms with it and was actually fond of it. Penrod himself would have maintained that he was fond of it if he had been asked. He would have said so because he feared to say otherwise and the truth is he had never consciously looked at the eye disrespectfully. He would have been alarmed if he thought the eye had any way of finding out how he really felt about it. When not off his guard he always looked at it placatively. By and by he sagged so far to the left that he had symptoms of a stitch in the side and rousing himself sat partially straight for several moments. Then he rubbed his shoulders slowly from side to side against the back of his seat until his mother whispered don't do that Penrod. Upon this he allowed himself to slump inwardly till the curve in the back of his neck rested against the curved top of the back of the seat. It was a congenial fit and Penrod again began to move slowly from side to side finding the friction soothing. Even so slight a pleasure was denied him by a husky stop that from his father. Penrod sighed and slid farther down. He scratched his head his left knee his right biceps and his left ankle after which he scratched his right knee his right ankle and his left biceps. Then he said oh um unconsciously but so loudly that there was a reproving stir in the neighborhood of the Schofield pew and his father looked at him angrily. Finally his nose began to trouble him. It itched and after scratching it he rubbed it harshly. Another stop that from his father proved to be of no avail being greeted by a desperate sounding whisper I got to. And continuing to rub his nose with his right hand Penrod began to search his pockets with his left. The quest proving fruitless he rubbed his nose with his left hand and searched with his right. Then he abandoned his nose and searched feverishly with both hands going through all of his pockets several times. What do you want? whispered his mother. But Margaret had divine his need and she passed him her own handkerchief. This was both thoughtful and thoughtless. The latter because Margaret was in the habit of thinking that she became faint in crowds especially at the theater or in church and she had just soaked her handkerchief with spirits of ammonia from a small file she carried in her mouth. Penrod hastily applied the handkerchief to his nose and even more hastily exploded. He sneezed stupendously. He choked, sneezed again, wept. Passed into a light convulsion of coughing and sneezing together emergence of sound that attracted much attention. And after a few recurrent spasms convalesced into a condition marked by silent tears and only sporadic instances of sneezing. By this time his family were unanimously scarlet. His father and mother with mortification and Margaret with the effort to control the almost irresistible mirth that the struggles and vociferations of Penrod had inspired within her. And yet her heart misgave her for his bloodshot and tearful eyes were fixed upon her from the first and remained upon her even when half blinded with his agony and their expression as terrible as that of the windowed eye confronting her was not for an instant to be misunderstood. Absolutely he believed that she had handed him the ammonia soaked handkerchief deliberately in with malice and well she knew that no power on earth could now or at any time henceforth persuade him otherwise. Of course I didn't mean it Penrod she said at the first opportunity upon their homeward way. I didn't notice that is I didn't think unfortunately for the effect of sincerity she hoped to produce her voice became tremulous and her shoulders moved suspiciously just you wait you'll see he prophesied in a voice now choking not with ammonia but with emotion poison a person and then laugh in his face. He spake no more until they reached their own house though she made some further futile efforts at explanation and apology and after brooding abysmally throughout the meal that followed he disappeared from the side of his family having answered with one frightful look his mother's timid suggestion that was almost time for Sunday school. He retired to his IRI the sawdust box in the empty stable and there gave rain to his embittered imaginings incidentally forming many plans for Margaret. Most of these were much too elaborate but one was so alluring that he dwelt upon it working out the details with gloomy pleasure even after he had perceived its defects. It involved some postponement in fact until Margaret would should have become the mother of a boy about Penrod's present age. This boy would be precisely like Georgie Bassett Penrod conceived that as inevitable and like Georgie he would be his mother's idol. Penrod meant to take him to church and force him to blow his nose with an ammonia soaked handkerchief in the presence of the eye and all the congregation. Then Penrod intended to say to this boy after church well that's exactly what your mother did to me and if you don't like it you better look out and the real Penrod in the sawdust box clenched his fists come ahead then he muttered you talk too much whereupon the Penrod of his dream gave Margaret's puny son a contemptuous thrashing under the eyes of his mother who be sought in vain for mercy. This plan was finally dropped not because of any lingering nepotism within Penrod but because his injury called for action less belated. One after another he thought of impossible things. One after another he thought of things merely inane and futile for he was trying to do something beyond his power. Penrod was never brilliant or even successful saved by inspiration. At four o'clock he came into the house still nebulous and as he passed the open door of the library he heard a man's voice on his father's. To me said this voice the finest lines in all literally are those in Tennyson's mod. Had it lain for a century dead my dust would hear her and beat and blossom in purple and red there's somewhere around near her feet. I think I have quoted correctly continued the voice nervously but at any rate what I wish to say was that often I think of those words but I never think of them without thinking of of of you. I uh the nervous voice paused and Penrod took an oblique survey of the room himself unobserved. Margaret was seated in an easy chair and her face was turned away from Penrod so that her expression of the moment would remain unknown to him. Facing her and leaning toward her with perceptible emotion was Mr. Claude Blakely a young man with whom Penrod had no acquaintance though he had seen him was aware of his identity and he had heard speech between Mrs. Gofield and Margaret which indicated that Mr. Blakely had had formed the habit of calling frequently at the house. This was a brilliantly handsome young man indeed his face was so beautiful that even Penrod was able to perceive something about it which might be explicitly pleasing at least to women and Penrod remembered that on the last evening before Mr. Robert Williams' departure for college Margaret had been peevish because Penrod had genially spent the greater portion of the evening with Robert and herself upon the porch. Margaret made it clear later that she strongly preferred to conduct her conversation with friends unassisted and as Penrod listened to the faltering words of Mr. Claude Blakely he felt instinctively that in a certain contingency Margaret's indignation would be even more severe today than on the former occasion. Mr. Blakely coughed faintly and was able to continue. I mean to say that when I say that what Tennyson says seems to apply to a feeling about you at this point finding too little breath in himself to proceed in spite of the fact that he had spoken in an almost inaudible tone Mr. Blakely stopped again. Something about this little scene was making a deep impression upon Penrod. What that impression was he could not possibly have stated but he had a sense of the imminence of a tender crisis and he perceived that the pecancy of affairs in the library had reached a point which would brand an intentional interruption as the act of a cold-blooded ruffian. Suddenly it was as though a strong light shone upon him. He decided that it was Mr. Blakely who had told Margaret that her eyes were like blue stars in heaven. This was the person who had caused the hateful letter to be written. That, decided Penrod, his inspiration so long waited for had come. I feel that perhaps I am not plain, said Mr. Blakely and he immediately became red whereas he had been pale. He was at least modest enough about his looks to fear that Margaret might think he had referred to them. I mean not plain in another sense that is, I mean not that I am not plain in, that is, I mean not that I am not plain in saying what I mean to you, I mean what you mean to me. I feel this was the moment selected by Penrod. He walked carelessly into the library inquiring in a loud bluff voice. Has anybody seen my dog around here, anywhere? Mr. Blakely had inclined himself so far toward Margaret and he was sitting so near the edge of the chair that only a really wonderful bit of instinctive gymnastics landed him upon his feet instead of upon his back. As for Margaret, she said, good gracious and regarded Penrod blankly. Well, said Penrod breezily, I guess it's no use looking for him, he isn't anywhere as around, I guess I'll sit down. Herewith he sank into an easy chair and remarked as in comfortable explanation, I'm kind of tired standing up anyway. Even in this crisis, Margaret was a credit to her mother's training. Penrod, have you met Mr. Blakely? What? Margaret primally performed the right. Mr. Blakely, this is my little brother Penrod. Mr. Blakely was understood to murmur, how do you do? I'm well, said Penrod. Margaret bent a perplexed gaze upon him and he saw that she had not defined his intentions, though the expression that Mr. Blakely was already beginning to be a little compensation for the ammonia outrage. Then, as the protracted silence which followed the introduction began to be a severe strain upon all parties, Penrod felt called upon to relieve it. I didn't have anything much to do this afternoon anyway, he said, and at that, there leaped a spark in Margaret's eye, her expression became severe. You should have gone to Sunday school, she told him crisply. Well, I didn't, said Penrod, with a bitterness so significant of sufferings connected with religion, ammonia and herself, that Margaret, after giving him a thoughtful look, concluded not to urge the point. Mr. Blakely smiled pleasantly. I was looking out of the window a minute ago, he said, and I saw a dog run across the street and turn the corner. What kind of a looking dog was it? Penrod inquired with languor. Well, said Mr. Blakely. It was a nice looking dog. What color was he? He was white, that is, I think, it wasn't Duke, said Penrod. Duke's kind of a brownish gray-like. Mr. Blakely brightened. Yes, that was it, he said. This dog I saw first had another dog with him, a brownish gray dog. Little or big, Penrod asked without interest. Why, Duke's a little dog, Margaret intervened. Of course it was little, it must have been Duke. It was little, said Mr. Blakely too enthusiastically. It was a little bit of a dog. I noticed it because it was so little. Couldn't have been Duke then, said Penrod. Duke's a kind of a middle-sized dog. He yawned and added, I don't want him now, I want to stay in the house this afternoon anyway, and it's better for Duke to be out in the fresh air. Mr. Blakely coughed again and sat down, finding little to say. It was evident also that Margaret shared his perplexity, and another silence became so embarrassing that Penrod broke it. I was out in the sawdust box, he said, but it got kind of chilly. Neither of his auditors felt called upon to offer any comment, and presently he added, I thought I'd better come in here where it's warmer. It's too warm, said Margaret at once. Mr. Blakely, would you mind opening a window? By all means, the young man responded earnestly as he rose. Maybe I'd better open too. Yes, said Margaret, that would be much better. But Penrod watched Mr. Blakely open two windows to their widest and betrayed no anxiety. His remarks about the relative temperatures of the sawdust box and the library had been merely for the sake of creating sound in a silent place. When the windows had been open for several minutes, Penrod's placidity, though gloomy, denoted anything but discomfort from the draft, which was powerful, the day being windy. It was Mr. Blakely's turn to break a silence, and he did it so unexpectedly that Margaret started. He sneezed. Perhaps Margaret began, but paused apprehensively. Perhaps her apprehensions became more and more poignant. Her eyes seemed fixed upon some incredible disaster. She appeared to inflate with while the catastrophe she foresaw became more and more imminent. All at once she collapsed, but the power Dick Corum had over her was attested by the mildness of her sneeze after so threatening a prelude. Perhaps I'd better put one of the windows down, Mr. Blakely suggested. Both, I believe, said Margaret. The room has cooled off now, I think. Mr. Blakely closed the windows and returning to a chair near Margaret, did he share in the production of another long period of quiet? Penrod allowed this one to pass without any vocal disturbance on his part. It may be, however, that his gaze was disturbing to Mr. Blakely, upon whose person it was glassily fixed with a self-forgetfulness that was almost morbid. Didn't you enjoy the last meeting of the Cotillion Club, Margaret said, finally? And upon Mr. Blakely's answering absently in the affirmative, she suddenly began to be talkative. He seemed to catch a meeting in her fluency and followed her lead. A conversation ensued which at first had all the outward signs of eagerness. They talked with warm interest of people and events unknown to Penrod. They laughed enthusiastically about things beyond his kin. They appeared to have arranged a perfect way to enjoy themselves, no matter whether he was with them or elsewhere, but presently their bristness began to slacken. The appearance of interest became perfunctory. Within ten minutes, the few last-scattering semblances of gaiety had passed, and they lapsed into the longest and most profound of all their silences indoors that day. Its effect upon Penrod was to make him yawn and settle himself in his chair. Then Mr. Blakely, coming to the surface out of deep inward communings, snapped his finger against the palm of his hand impulsively. By George, he exclaimed under his breath. What is it? Margaret asked. Did you remember something? No, it's nothing. He said, nothing at all. But, by the way, it seems a pity for you to be missing the fine weather. I wonder if I could persuade you to take a little walk. Margaret, somewhat to the surprise of both the gentlemen present, looked uncertain. I don't know, she said. Mr. Blakely saw that she missed his point. One can talk better in the open, don't you think? He urged, with a significant glance toward Penrod. Margaret also glanced keenly at Penrod. Well, perhaps. And then, I'll get my hat, she said. Penrod was on his feet before she left the room. He stretched himself. I'll get mine too, he said. But he carefully went to find it in a different direction from that taken by his sister. And he joined her and her escort not until they were at the front door. Wither Mr. Blakely, with a last flickering hope, had urged to fly in haste. I've been thinking of taking a walk all afternoon, said Penrod pompously. Don't matter to me which way we go. The exquisite oval of Mr. Claude Blakely's face merged into outlines more rugged than usual. The confirmation of his job became perceptible, and it could be seen that he had conceived an idea which was crystallizing into a determination. I believe it happens that this is our first walk together, he said to Margaret as they reached the pavement. But from the kind of tennis you play, I judged that you could go a pretty good gait. Do you like walking fast? She nodded. For exercise. Shall we try it then? You set the pace, said Margaret. I think I can keep up. He took her at her word and the amazing briskness of their start seemed a little sinister to Penrod, though he was convinced that he could do anything that Margaret could do, and also that neither she nor her comely friend could sustain such a speed for long. On the contrary, they actually increased it with each fleeting block they covered. Here, he panted, when they had thus put something more than a half mile behind them, there isn't anybody has to have a doctor, I guess, what's the use of our walking so fast? In truth, Penrod was not walking for his shorter legs permitted no actual walking at such a speed. His gait was a half trot. Oh, we're out for a walk! Mr. Blakely returned, a note of gaiety beginning to sound in his voice. Margaret missed Schofield, keep your head up and breathe through your nose. That's it. You'll find I was right in suggesting this. It's going to turn out gloriously. Now, let's make it a little faster. Margaret murmured inarticulately, for she would not waste her breath in a more coherent reply. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were brimming with the wind, and when she looked at Penrod, they were brimming with something more. Gurgling sounds came from within her. Penrod's expression had become grim. He offered no second protest, mainly because he, likewise, would not waste his breath. And if he would, he could not. A breath in the ordinary sense, breath, breathed automatically, he had none. He had only gasped to feed his straining lungs and his half trot, which had long since become a trot, and was changed for a lope when Mr. Blakely reached his own best burst of speed. And now people stared at the flying three. The gate of Margaret and Mr. Blakely could be called a walk only by courtesy, while Penrod's was becoming a kind of blind scamper. At times he zigzagged, other times he fell behind, wobbling. Anon, with elbows flopping and his face sculptured like an antique mask, he would actually forge ahead, and then, carry him from one to the other of his companions as he fell back again. Thus, the trio sped through the coming of autumn dust, outflying the fallen leaves that tumbled upon the wind, and still Penrod held to the task that he had set himself. The street lamps flickered into life, but on and on Claude Blakely led the lady and on and on reeled the grim Penrod. Never once was he so far from them that they could have exchanged a word unshaperone by his throbbing ear. Oh, Margaret cried and, halting suddenly, she draped herself about a lamppost like a strip of bunting. Goodness, she sobbed. Penrod immediately dropped to the curbstone, which he reached by pure fortune in a sitting position. Mr. Blakely leaned against a fence and said nothing, though his breathing was eloquent. We must go home, Margaret gasped. We must if we can drag ourselves. Then Penrod showed them what metal they he'd tried to crack. A paroxysm of coughing shook him. He spoke through it sobbingly. Drag. It's just lull, like a girl. Why a walkhoof? Faster than that every day on my way to school. He managed to subjugate a tendency to nausea. What do you want to go home for? He said, let's go on. In the darkness, Mr. Claude Blakely's expression could not be seen, nor was his voice heard. For these and other reasons, his opinions and sentiments may not be stated. Mrs. Gofield was looking rather anxiously forth from her front door when the two adult figures and the faithful smaller one came up the walk. I was getting uneasy, she said. Pop and I came in and found the house empty. It's after seven. Oh, Mr. Blakely, is that you? Good evening, he said. I fear I must be keeping in engagement. Good night. Good night, Ms. Gofield. Good night. Well, good night, Penrod called, staring after him. But Mr. Blakely was already too far away to hear him, and a moment later, Penrod followed his mother and sister into the house. I let Dele go to church, Mrs. Gofield said to Margaret. You and I might help Katie get supper. Not for a few minutes. Margaret returned gravely, looking at Penrod. Come upstairs, mama. I want to tell you something. Penrod cackled horse triumph and defiance. Go on, tell. What I care. You try to poison a person in church again and then laugh in his face. You'll see what you get. But after his mother had retired with Margaret to the latter's room, he began to feel disturbed in spite of his firm belief that his cause was wholly that of justice victorious. Margaret had insidious ways of stating a case, and her point of view, no matter how absurd or unjust, was almost always adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Gofield in cases of controversy. Penrod became uneasy. Perceiving himself to be in danger, he decided that perhaps measures were warranted. Unquestionably, it would be well to know beforehand in what terms Margaret would couch the charges which he supposed he must face in open court. That is to say, at the supper table. He stole softly up the stairs and, flattening himself against the wall, approached Margaret's door, which was about an inch of jar. He heard his mother making sounds which appalled him. He took them for sobs, and then Margaret's voice rang out in appeal of insane laughter. Trembling, he crept nearer the door. Within the room, Margaret was clinging to her mother, and both were trying to control their hilarity. He did it all to get even, Margaret exclaimed, wiping her eyes. He came in at just the right time. That goose was beginning to talk, his silly soft talk, the way he does with every girl in town, and he was almost proposing. And I didn't know how to stop him. And then Penrod came in and did it for me. I could have hugged Penrod, mama. I actually could. And I saw he meant to stay to get even for that ammonia. And oh, I worked so hard to make him think I wanted him to go, mama, mama. If you could have seen that walk, that goose kept thinking that he could wear Penrod out or drop him behind. But I know he couldn't so long as Penrod believed he was worrying us and getting even. And that goose thought I wanted to get rid of Penrod too. And the conceited thing said it would turn out gloriously, meaning would be alone together pretty soon. I'd like to shake him. You see, I pretended so well in order to make Penrod stick to us. That goose believed I meant it. And if he hadn't tried to walk Penrod off his legs, he wouldn't have wilted his own collar and worn himself out. And I think he'd have hung on until you'd have had to invite him to say to supper. And he'd have stayed on all evening. And I wouldn't have had a chance to write to Robert Williams, mama. There have been lots of times when I haven't been thankful for Penrod. But today I could have got down on my knees to you and Papa forgiving me, such a brother. In the darkness of the hall, as a small but crushed and broken form stole away from the crack in the door, a gigantic eye seemed to form. Seemed to glare down upon Penrod, warning him that the way of vengeance is the way of bafflement, and that genius may not prevail against the trickeries of woman. This has been a nice day, Penrod muttered hoarsely. End of chapter 17. Chapter 18 of Penrod and Sam. This LibriVox recording This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Birchard, April 2009 Penrod and Sam by Booth Tarkington. Chapter 18 on account of the weather. There is no boredom, not even in invalids, comparable to that of a boy who has nothing to do. When a man says he has nothing to do, he speaks idly. There is always more than he can do. Grown women never say they have nothing to do. And when girls or little girls say they have nothing to do, they are merely airing an affectation. But when a boy has nothing to do, he has actually nothing at all to do. His state is pathetic, and when he complains of it, his voice is haunting. Mrs. Schofield was troubled by this uncomfortable quality in the voice of her son, who came to her thrice in his search for entertainment or even employment, one Saturday afternoon during the February thaw. Few facts are better established than that the February thaw is the poorest time of year for everybody. But for a boy it is worse than poorest. It is bankrupt. The remnant streaks of old soot-speckled snow left against the north walls of houses have no power to inspire. Rather, they are dreary reminders of sports long since carried to satiety. One carries little even to eat such snow, and the eating of icicles also has come to be a flaccid and stale diversion. There is no ice to bear a skate, there is only a vast sufficiency of cold mud, practically useless. Sunshine flickers shiftily, coming and going without any honest purpose. Snow squalls blow for five minutes, the flakes disappearing as they touch the earth. Half an hour later, rain sputters, turns to snow, and then turns back to rain, and the sun disingenuously beams out again, only to be shut off like a rogue's lantern. And all the wretched while, if a boy sets foot out of doors, he must be harassed about his overcoat and rubbers, he is warned against tracking up the plastic lawn and sharply advised to stay inside the house. Saturday might as well be Sunday. Thus the season, Penrod had sought all possible means to pass the time. A full half hour of vehement yodeling in the Williams Yard had failed to bring forth Comrade Sam, and at last a colored woman had opened a window to inform Penrod that her intellect was being unceded by his vocalizations, which surpassed in unpleasantness, she claimed, every sound in her previous experience and for the sake of definiteness, she stated her age to be 53 years and four months. She added that all members of the Williams family had gone out of town to attend the funeral of a relative, but she wished that they might have remained to attend Penrod's, which she confidently predicted as imminent if the neighborhood followed its natural impulse. Penrod listened for a time, but departed before the conclusion of the oration. He sought other comrades with no success. He even went to the length of yodeling in the yard of that best of boys, Georgie Bassett. Here was failure again, for Georgie signaled to him through a closed window that a closeting with dramatic literature was preferable to the society of a playmate, and the book that Georgie exhibited was openly labeled 300 choice declamations. Georgie also managed to convey another reason for his refusal of Penrod's companionship, the visitor being conversant with lip reading through his studies at the movies. Too muddy, Penrod went home. Well, Mrs. Cofield said, having almost exhausted a mother's powers of suggestion, why don't you give Duke of Bath? She was that far depleted when Penrod came to her the third time. Mother's suggestions are wonderful for little children, but sometimes lackluster when a boy approaches 12, an age to which the ideas of a sweet farmhand would usually prove more congenial. However, the dim and melancholy eye of Penrod showed a pale gleam, and he departed. He gave Duke of Bath. The entertainment proved damp and discouraging for both parties. Duke began to tremble even before he was lifted into the water, and after his first immersion, he was revealed to be a dog weighing about one fourth of what an observer of Duke, when Duke was dry, might have guessed his weight to be. His wetness and the disclosure of his extreme fleshly insignificance appeared to mortify him profoundly. He wept. But presently, under Penrod's thorough administrations, for the young master was inclined to make this bath as long as possible, Duke plucked up a heart and began a series of passionate attempts to close the interview. As this was his first bath since September, the effects were lavish and impressionistic, both upon Penrod and upon the bathroom. However, the imperious boy's loud remonstrances contributed to bring about the result desired by Duke. Mrs. Schofield came running and eloquently put an end to Duke's winter bath. When she had suggested this cleansing as a pleasant means of passing the time, she had assumed it would take place in a wash tub in the cellar, and Penrod's location of the performance in her own bathroom was far from her intention. Penrod found her language oppressive and having been denied the right to rub Duke dry with a bath towel or even with the cover of a table in the next room, the dismal boy, accompanied by his dismal dog, set forth by way of the kitchen door into the dismal weather. With no purpose in mind, they mechanically went out to the alley where Penrod leaned morosely against the fence and Duke stood shivering close by. His figure still emaciated and his tail absolutely withdrawn from view. There was a cold, wet wind, however, and before long Duke found his condition unendurable. He was past middle age and cared little for exercise, but he saw that something must be done. Therefore, he made a vigorous attempt to dry himself in a dog's way. Throwing himself shoulders first upon the alley mud, he slid upon it, rolled downward, and he rolled and rolled and rolled. He began to feel lively and rolled the moor. In every way, he convinced Penrod that dogs have no regard for appearances. Also, having discovered an ex-fish near the Herman and Vermin Cottage, Duke confirmed an impression of Penrod's that dogs have a peculiar fancy in the matter of odors that they like to wear. Growing livelier and livelier, Duke now wished to play with his master. Penrod was anything but fastidious. Nevertheless, under the circumstances, he withdrew to the kitchen, leaving Duke to play by himself outside. Della the cook was comfortably making roles and entertaining a caller with a cup of tea. Penrod lingered a few moments, but found even his attention to the conversation ill-received, while his attempts to take part in it met outright rebuff. His feelings were heard. He passed broodingly to the front part of the house and flung himself weirdly into an armchair in the library. With glazed eyes, he stared at shelves of books that meant to him just what the wallpaper meant, and he sighed from the abyss. His legs tossed and his arms flopped. He got up, scratched himself exhaustively, and shuffled to a window. Ten desolate minutes he stood there, gazing out sluggishly upon a soggy world. During this time, two wet delivery wagons and four elderly women under umbrellas were all that crossed his field of vision. Somewhere in the world, he thought there was probably a boy who lived across the street from a jail or a fire engine house and had windows worth looking out of. Penrod rubbed his nose up and down the pain slowly, continuously and without the slightest pleasure, and he again scratched himself wherever it was possible to do so, though he did not even itch. There was nothing in his life. Such boredom as he was suffering can become agony, and an imaginative creature may do wild things to escape it. Many a grown person has taken a drink on account of less pressure than was upon Penrod during that intolerable Saturday. A faint sound in his ear informed him that Della in the kitchen had uttered a loud exclamation, and he decided to go back there. However, since his former visit had resulted in a rebuff that still rankled, he paused outside the kitchen door, which was slightly ajar, and listened. He did this idly and with no hope of hearing anything interesting or helpful. Snakes, Della exclaimed. Did you say the poor man was seeing snakes, Mrs. Cullen? No, Della. Mrs. Cullen returned delorously. Just one. Flora says he'd never seen more than one. Just one big, long, ugly, face-horrible black one. The same one coming back and making a fizz in eyes at him every time he'd get the fit on him. To his always the same snake and eat holler at Flora. Here it comes again. Oh, me soul, eat holler. The big black ugly face thing. It's as long as a front fence, eat holler. And it's making a fizz in eyes at me, and breathe them in me face, eat holler. Even the love of hive in Florida, eat holler. It's got a little black man with a ghastly white full head poking it along with his broom handle and a sickening army. The same as a boy sticks a dog on a poor cat for the love of hive in Florida, eat holler. Can't you fright it away from me before I go out of my head? Poor Tom. Said Della with deep compassion. And the poor man out of his head all the time. And not knowing it, he was awful for Florida to sit there and hear such things on the night like that. You may believe yourself when you say it. Mrs. Cullen agreed. Right the very night the poor soul died. He was hollering how the big black snake and the little black man with the ghastly white full head have poking it with their broom stick could come for him. Frighten him away, flora, he was croaking. And advice that horse and huskies was hard to make out what he says. Fright him away, flora, he says. Tis the big black ugly face snake. As black as a black stalker and thicker around the me leg at the thigh before I was wasted away. He says, poor man, it makin' the fizzin' not as awful tonight, he says. And the little black man with the ghastly white full head is a laughin', he says. He's a laughin' and a poke in the big black fizzin' ugly face snake with his broom stick. Della was unable to endure the description. Don't tell me no more, Ms. Cullen, she protested. Poor Tom. I thought flora was wrong last week when she hid the whiskey to has taken it away from him that killed him and him already so sick. Well, said Mrs. Cullen. He hardly had the strength to drink what she tells me after he's seen that big snake in the little black tibble the first time. Poor woman, she says he talks so plain she sees him both herself. Every time she looks at the poor body where it's laid out, she says, Don't tell me, cried the impressionable Della. Don't tell me, Ms. Cullen. I can most see him myself, right here in my own kitchen. Poor Tom, to think when I bought me new hat only last week the first time I'd be wearing it would be to his funeral. Tomorrow afternoon, is it? At two o'clock, said Mrs. Cullen. You'll be coming to the house tonight, of course, Della. I will, said Della. After what I've been hearing from me, I'm most afraid to come, but I'll do it. Poor Tom, I remember the day him and flora was buried. But the eavesdropper heard no more. He was on his way up the back stairs. Life and light and purpose had come to his face once more. Margaret was out for the afternoon. Unaustentatiously, he went to her room and for the next few minutes occupied himself busily therein. He was so quiet that his mother, sowing in her own room, would not have heard him except for the obstinacy of one of the drawers in Margaret's bureau. Mrs. Gofield went to the door of her daughter's room. What are you doing, Penrod? Nothing. You're not disturbing any of Margaret's things, are you? No, ma'am, said the meaglad. What did you jerk that drawer open for? Ma'am, you heard me, Penrod. Yes, ma'am, I was just looking for something. For what, Mrs. Gofield asked? You know that nothing of yours would be in Margaret's room, Penrod, don't you? Ma'am, what was it you wanted? She asked rather impatiently. I was just looking for some pins. Very well, she said, and handed him two from the shoulder of her blouse. I ought to have more, he said. I want about forty. What for? I just want to make something, mama, he said plaintively. My goodness, can't I even want to have a few pins without everybody making such a fuss about it you'd think I was doing a scrim? Doing a what, Penrod? A scrim, he repeated, with emphasis, and a moment's reflection enlightened his mother. Oh, a crime, she exclaimed. You must quit reading the murder trials in the papers, Penrod, and when you read words you don't know how to pronounce, you ought to come ask either your papa or me. Well, I am asking you about something now, Penrod said. Can't I even have a few pins without stopping to talk about everything in the newspapers, mama? Yes, she said, laughing at his seriousness, and she took him to her room and bestowed upon him five or six rows torn from a paper of pins. That ought to be plenty, she said, for whatever you want to make. And she smiled after his retreating figure, not noting that he looked softly bulky around the body and held his elbows unnaturally tight to his sides. She was assured of the innocence of anything to be made with pins and for bore-to-press investigation. For Penrod to be playing with pins seemed almost girlish. Unhappy woman, it pleased her to have her son seem girlish. Penrod went out to the stable, tossed his pins into the wheelbarrow, then took from his pocket and unfolded six pairs of long black stockings indubitably the property of his sister. Evidently, Mrs. Schofield had been a little late in making her appearance at the door of Margaret's room. Penrod worked systematically. He hung the twelve stockings over the sides of the wheelbarrow and placed the wheelbarrow beside a large packing box that was full of excelsior. One after another, he stuffed the stockings with excelsior till they looked like twelve long black sausages. Then he pinned the top of one stocking securely over the stuffed foot of another, pinning the top of a third to the foot of the second, the top of a fourth to the foot of the third, and continued operations in this fashion until the twelve stockings were the semblance of one long and sinuous black body, sufficiently suggestive to any normal eye. He tied a string to one end of this unpleasant looking thing, led it around the stable, and by vigorous manipulations succeeded in making it wriggle realistically, but he was not satisfied, and dropping the string listlessly sat down in the wheelbarrow to ponder. Penrod sometimes proved that there were within him the makings of an artist, and he had become fascinated by an idea, and could not be content until that idea was beautifully realized. He had meant to create a big, long, ugly-faced, horrible black snake with which to interest Della and her friend Mrs. Cullen, but he felt that results so far were too crude for exploitation. Merely to lead the pin stockings by a string was little to fulfill his ambitious vision. Finally, he rose from the wheelbarrow. If I only had a cat, he said dreamily. End of Chapter 18. Chapter 19 of Penrod and Sam This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard, April 2009, Penrod and Sam by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 19 Creative Art He went forth seeking. The Schofield household was catless this winter, but there was a nice white cat at the Williams. Penrod strode thoughtfully over to the Williams yard. He was entirely successful, not even having been seen by the sensitive-colored woman aged 53 years and four months. But still Penrod was thoughtful. The artist within him was unsatisfied with his materials, and upon his return to the stable, he placed the cat beneath an overturned box, and once more sat down in the inspiring wheelbarrow, pondering. His expression, concentrated and yet a little anxious, was like that of a painter at work upon a portrait that may or may not turn out to be a masterpiece. The cat did not disturb him by her purring, though she was indeed already purring. She was one of those cozy, youngish cats, plump. Even a little full-bodied perhaps, and rather conscious of the figure, that are entirely conventional and domestic by nature, and will set up a lady-like housekeeping anywhere without making a fuss about it. If there be a fault in these cats, over complacency might be the name for it. They are a shade too sure of themselves, and their assumption that the world means to treat them respectfully has just a little taint of the grande dame. Consequently, they are liable to great outbreaks of nervous energy from within, and gendered by the extreme surprises that life sometimes holds in store for them. They lack the pessimistic imagination. Mrs. Williams' cat was content upon a strange floor and in the confining enclosure of a strange box. She purred for a time, then trustfully fell asleep. To as well she slumbered, she would need all her powers presently. She slumbered and dreamed not that she would wake to mingle with events that were to alter her serene disposition radically and cause her to become hasty-tempered and abnormally suspicious for the rest of her life. Meanwhile, Penrod appeared to reach a doubtful solution of his problem. His expression was still somewhat clouded as he brought from the storeroom of the stable a small fragment of a broken mirror, two paint brushes and two old cans, one containing black paint and the other white. He regarded himself earnestly in the mirror, and then, with some reluctance, he dipped a brush into one of the cans, and slowly painted his nose a midnight black. He was on the point of spreading this decoration to cover the lower part of his face when he paused, brush halfway between can and chin. What arrested him was a sound from the alley. A sound of drumming upon tin. The eyes of Penrod became significant of rushing thoughts. His expression cleared and brightened. He ran to the alley doors and flung them open. Oh, vermin! he shouted, marching up and down before the cottage across the alley. Vermin plainly considered himself to be an army. Hanging from his shoulders by a string was an old tin wash basin, whereon he beat cheerfully with two dry bones, once the chief support of a chicken. Thus he assuaged his ennui. Vermin, come on in here, Penrod called. I got something for you to do, you'll like awful well. Vermin halted, ceased to drum and stared. His gaze was not fixed particularly upon Penrod's nose, however, and neither now nor later did he make any remark or gesture referring to this casual eccentricity. He expected things like that upon Penrod or Sam Williams, and as for Penrod himself, he had already forgotten that his nose was painted. Come on, vermin! Vermin continued to stare, not moving. He had received such invitations before, and they had not always resulted to his advantage. Within that stable things had happened to him, the like of which he was anxious to avoid in the future. Oh, come ahead, vermin, Penrod urged, and, dividing logic in the reluctance confronting him, he added, this ain't going to be anything like last time, vermin. I got something just splendid for you to do. Vermin's expression hardened. He shook his head decisively. Mo, he said. Oh, come on, vermin! Penrod pleaded. It isn't anything going to hurt you, is it? I'll tell you, it's something you'd give a good deal to get to do if you knew what it was. Mo, said vermin firmly. I moan wahoo! Penrod offered arguments. Look, vermin, he said. Listen here a minute, can you? How'd you know you don't want to until you know what it is? A person can't know they don't want to do a thing even before the other person tells them what they're going to get them to do, can they? For all you know, this thing I'm going to get you to do might be something you wouldn't miss doing for anything there is. For all you know, vermin, it might be something like this. Well, for instance, suppose I was standing here and you over there, sort of like the way you are now, and I says, hello, vermin. And then I'd go on and tell you that there was something I was going to get you to do, and you'd say you wouldn't do it even before you heard what it was. Why, where'd be any sense to that? For all you know, I might have been going to get you to eat a five-cent bag of peanuts. Vermin had listened objurately until he heard the last few words, but as they fell upon his ear, he relaxed and advanced to the stable doors, smiling and extending his open right hand. Hi, why? He said. Give him here. Well, Penrod returned, a trifle embarrassed. I didn't say it was peanuts, did I? Honest, vermin. It's something you'll like better than a few old peanuts that most of them probably have worms in them anyway. All I want you to do is that vermin was not favorably impressed. His face hardened again. Mo, he said, and prepared to depart. Look here, vermin, Penrod urged. It isn't going to hurt you just to come in here and see what I got for you, is it? You can do that much, can't you? Surely such an appeal must have appeared reasonable, even to vermin, especially since its effect was aided by the promising words, see what I got for you. Certainly vermin yielded to it, though perhaps a little suspiciously, he advanced a few cautious steps into the stable. Look, Penrod cried, and he ran to the stuffed and linked stockings, seized the leading string, and vigorously illustrated his further remarks. How's that for a big, long, ugly face, horrible black old snake, vermin? Look at her follow me all around anywhere I feel like going. Look at her wiggle, will you, though? Look how I make her do anything I tell her to. Lay down, you old snake. See here, lay down when I tell her to, vermin? Wiggle, you old snake, you. See here, wiggle, vermin? Hi! Undoubtedly, vermin felt some pleasure. Now, listen, vermin, Penrod continued, hastening to make the most of the opportunity. Listen, I fixed up this good old snake just for you. I'm going to give her to you. Hi! On account of a previous experience, not unconnected with cats, and likely to prejudice vermin, Penrod decided to postpone mentioning Mrs. Williams' pet until he should have secured vermin's cooperation in the enterprise irretrievably. All you got to do, he went on, is to chase this good old snake around and sort of laugh and keep poking it with the handle of that rake yonder. I'm going to saw it off just so you can poke your good old snake with it, vermin. Oh, I, said vermin, and extending his open hand again, he uttered a hopeful request. He mutt. His host perceived that vermin had misunderstood him. Peanuts, he exclaimed. My goodness, I didn't say I had any peanuts, did I? I only said, suppose, for instance, I did have some. My goodness, you don't expect me to go around here all day working like a dog to make a good old snake for you, and then give you a bag of peanuts to hire you to play with it, do you, vermin? My goodness. Vermin's hand fell with a little disappointment. I, why? He said, consenting to accept the snake without the bonus. That's the boy. Now we're all right, vermin, and pretty soon I'm going to saw that rake handle off for you, too, so you can kind of guide that your good old snake around with it. But first, well, first, there's just one more thing that's got to be done. I'll show you. It won't take but a minute. Then, while vermin watched him wonderingly, he went to the can of white paint and dipped a brush therein. It won't get on your clothes or much or anything, vermin. He explained, I only just got two. But as he approached, dripping brush in hand, the wondering look was all gone from vermin, determination back in its place. Mo, he said, turning his back and started for outdoors. Look here, vermin, Penrod cried. I haven't done anything to you yet, have I? It isn't going to hurt you, is it? You act like a little teeny bit of paint was going to kill you. What's the matter of you? I only just got to paint the top part of your face. I'm not going to touch the other part of it, nor your hands or anything. All I want. Mo, said vermin from the doorway. Oh my goodness, bone Penrod. And in desperation, he drew forth from his pocket his entire fortune. All right, vermin, he said resignedly. If you won't do it any other way, here's a nickel. And you can go and buy you some peanuts when we get through. And if I give you this money, you got to promise to wait until we are through. And you got to promise to do anything I tell you to. You going to promise? The eyes of vermin glistened. He returned, gave bond, and grasping the coin, burst into the rich laughter of a gormand. Penrod immediately painted him dead white above the eyes, all around his head and including his hair. It took all the paint in the can. Then the artist mentioned the presence of Mrs. William's cat, explained in full his ideas concerning the docile animal, and the long black snake and Della and her friend Mrs. Cullen while vermin listened with anxiety but remained true to his oath. They removed the stalking at the end of the long black snake and cut four holes in the foot and ankle of it. They removed the excelsior and placed Mrs. Williams cat in the stalking, shook her down into the lower section of it, drew her feet through the four holes, leaving her head in the toe of the stalking, then packed the excelsior down on top of her and once more attached the stalking to the rest of the long black snake. How shameful is the ease of the historian? He sits in his dressing gown to write, the enemy attacked in force. The tranquil pen moving in a cloud of tobacco smoke leaves upon the page its little hero glyphics, serenely summing up the monstrous deeds and sufferings of men of action. How cold, how niggardly, to state merely that Penrod and the painted vermin succeeded in giving the long black snake a mode of power or tractor, apparently its own but consisting of Mrs. Williams' cat. She was drowsy when they lifted her from the box. She was still drowsy when they introduced part of her into the orifice of the stalking, but she woke to full, vigorous young life when she perceived that their purpose was for her to descend into the black depths of that stalking head first. Vermin held the mouth of the stalking stretched and Penrod manipulated the cat, but she left her hearty mark on both of them before, in a moment of unfortunate inspiration, she humped her back while she was upside down and Penrod took advantage of the concavity to increase it even more than she desired. The next instant she was assisted downward into the gloomy interior with Excelsior already beginning to block the means of egress. Gymnastic moments followed. There were times when both boys hurled themselves full length upon the floor, seizing the animated stalking with far extended hands and even when the snake was a complete thing with legs growing from its unquestionably ugly face, either Penrod or Vermin must keep a grasp upon it for it would not be soothed and refused over and over to calm itself even when addressed as poor pussy and nice little kitty. Finally, they thought they had their good old snake about quieted down, as Penrod said, because the animated head had remained in place for an unusual length of time, though the legs produced a rather sinister effect of crouching and a noise like a distant planing meal came from the interior and then Duke appeared in the doorway. He was still feeling lively. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 of Penrod and Sam This Libor rocks recordings in the public domain Reading by Jonathan Birchard April 2009 Penrod and Sam by Booth Tarkington Chapter 20 The Departing Guest By the time Penrod returned from chasing Duke to the next corner, Vermin had the long black snake down from the rafter where its active head had taken refuge with the rest of it dangling. And both boys agreed that Mrs. Williams' cat must certainly be able to see some, anyway, through the meshes of the stalking. Well, said Penrod, it's getting pretty near dark, what with all this bother and mess we've been having around here. And I expect, as soon as I get this good old broom handle fixed out of the rake for you, Vermin, it'll be about time to begin what we had to go and take all this trouble for. Mr. Scofield had brought an old friend home to dinner with him. Dear old Joe Killing, he called this friend with introducing him to Mrs. Scofield. Mr. Gilling, as Mrs. Scofield was already informed by telephone, had just happened to turn up in town that day and had called on his classmate at the latter's office. The two had not seen each other in eighteen years. Mr. Gilling was a tall man, clad highly in the mode, and brought to a polished and powdered finished by Barber and manicurist. But his color was peculiar, being almost unhumanly florid. And as Mrs. Scofield afterward claimed to have noticed, his eyes were a nervous apprehensive look, his hands were tremulous, and his manner was queer and jerky. At least, that is how she defined it. She was not surprised to hear him state that he was traveling for his health and not upon business. He had not been really well for several years, he said. At that, Mr. Scofield laughed and slapped him heartily on the back. Oh, mercy! Mr. Gilling cried, leaping in his chair. What is the matter? Nothing, Mr. Scofield laughed. I just slapped you the way we used to slap each other on the campus. What I was going to say was that you have no business being a bachelor. With all your money and nothing to do but travel and sit around hotels and clubs, no wonder you've grown bilious. Oh, no, I'm not bilious, Mr. Gilling said uncomfortably. I'm not bilious at all. You ought to get married, Mr. Scofield returned. You ought. He paused for Mr. Gilling had jumped again. What's the trouble, Joe? Nothing, I thought perhaps perhaps you were going to slap me on the back again. Not this time, Mr. Scofield said, renewing his laughter. Well, is dinner about ready? He asked, turning to his wife. Where are Margaret and Penrod? Margaret's just coming in, Mr. Scofield answered. She'll be down in a minute and Penrod's around somewhere. Penrod? Mr. Gilling repeated curiously in his nervous, serious way. What is Penrod? And at this, Mrs. Scofield joined in her husband's laughter. Mr. Scofield explained. Penrod's our young son, he said. He's not much for looks maybe, but he's been pretty good lately and sometimes we're almost inclined to be proud of him. You'll see him in a minute, old Joe. Old Joe saw him even sooner. Instantly as Mr. Scofield finished his little prediction, the most shocking uproar ever heard in that house burst forth in the kitchen. Distinctly Irish shrieks unlimited came from that quarter. Together with the clashing of hurled metal and tin, the appealing sound of breaking china and the hysterical barking of a dog. The library door flew open and Mrs. Cullen appeared as a mingled streak crossing the room from one door to the other. She was followed by a boy with a cold black nose and between his feet as he entered there appeared a big long black horrible snake with frantic legs springing from what appeared to be its head. And it further fulfilled Mrs. Cullen's description by making a fission noise. Accompanying the snake and still faithfully endeavoring to guide it with the detached handle of a rake was a small black demon with a ghastly white forehead and ghastlier white hair. Duke evidently still feeling his bath was doing all in his power to aid the demon in making the snake stepped lively. A few kitchen implements followed this fugitive procession through the library doorway. The long black snake became involved with the leg of the heavy table in the center of the room. The head developed spasms of agility. There were clangings and rippings and the foremost section of the long black snake detached itself bounded into the air and after turning a number of somersaults became severally a torn stocking excelsior and a lunatic cat. The ears of this cat were laid back flat upon its head and its speed was excessive upon a fairly circular track it laid out for itself in the library. Flying around this orbit it perceived the open doorway passed through it thence to the kitchen and outward and onward Della having left the kitchen door open in her haste as she retired to the backyard. The black demon with the ghastly white forehead and hair finding himself in the presence of grown people who were white all over turned in his tracks and followed Mrs. Williams cat to the great outdoors. Duke preceded vermin Mrs. Cullen vanished of the apparition only wreckage and a rightfully apprehensive pen rod were left. But where? Mrs. Schofield began a few minutes later looking suddenly mystified Where? What? Mr. Schofield asked Testerly What are you talking about? His nerves were jarred and he was rather hoarse after what he had been saying to Penrod. That regretful necromancer was now upstairs doing unhelpful things to his nose over a wash stand. What do you mean by Where? Where? Where? Mr. Schofield demanded I don't see any sense to it. But where is your old classmate? She cried Where's Mr. Killing? She was the first to notice this striking absence. By George, Mr. Schofield explained Where is old Joe? Margaret intervened You mean that tall pale man who was calling? She asked Pale no Said her father He's as flushed as He was pale when I saw him Margaret said He had his hat and coat and he was trying to get out of the front door when I came running downstairs. He couldn't work the catch for a minute but before I got to the foot of the steps he managed to turn it and open the door. He went out before I could think what to say to him he was in such a hurry. I guess everything was so confused you didn't notice but he's certainly gone. Mr. Schofield turned to her husband but I thought he was going to stay to dinner. She cried Mr. Schofield shook his head admitting himself floored later having mentally gone over everything that might shed light on the curious behavior of old Joe he said without preface he wasn't at all dissipated when we were in college Mrs. Schofield nodded severely Maybe this was just the best thing could have happened to him after all she said It may be her husband returned I don't say it isn't but that isn't going to make any difference in what I'm going to do to Penrod End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 of Penrod and Sam This LibriVox recording is in the public domain Recording by Jonathan Burchard April 2009 Penrod and Sam by Booth Tarkington Chapter 21 Yernings The next day a new ambition entered into Penrod's Schofield It was heralded by a flourish of trumpets and set up a great noise within his being On his way home from Sunday school he had paused at a corner to listen to a brass band which was returning from a funeral playing a medley of airs from the merry widow and as the musicians came down the street walking so gracefully the sun picked out the gold braid upon their uniforms and splashed fire from their polished instruments Penrod marked the shapes of the great brass horns the suave sculpture of their brazen coils and the grand sensational flair of their mouths and he saw plainly that these noble things to be mastered needed no more than some breath blown into them during the fingering of a few simple keys Then obediently they gave forth those vast but dulcet sounds which stirred his spirit as no other sounds could stir it quite The leader of the band walking her head was a pleasing figure nothing more Penrod supposed him to be a mere decoration and had never sympathized with Sam Williams deep feeling about drum majors The cornets, the trombones the smaller horns were rather interesting of course and the drums had charm especially the bass drum which must be partially supported by a youth in front but immeasurably above all these what fascinated Penrod was the little man with the monster horn Their Penrod's widening eyes remained transfixed upon the horn so dazzling with its broad spaces of brassy highlights and so overwhelming with its mouth as wide as a tub that there was something almost threatening about it The little elderly band musician walked manfully as he blew his great horn and in that pompous engine of sound the boy beheld a spectacle of huge forces under human control To Penrod the horn meant power and the musician meant mastery overpower though of course Penrod did not know that this was how he really felt about the matter Grand eloquent sketches were passing and interchanging before his mind's eye Penrod in noble raiment marching down the staring street his shoulders swaying professionally the roar of the horn he bore submerging all other sounds Penrod on horseback blowing the enormous horn and leading wild hordes to battle while Marjorie Jones looked on from the sidewalk Penrod astounding his mother and father and sister by suddenly serenading them in the library Why Penrod where did you learn to play like this These were vague and shimmering glories of vision rather than definite plans for his life work yet he did with all his will determined to own and play upon some roaring instrument of brass and after all this was no new desire of his it was only an old one in flame to take a new form nor was music the root of it for the identical desire is often uproarious among them that hate music What stirred in Penrod was new neither in him nor in the world but old old as old Adam old as the childishness of man all children have it of course they are all anxious to make a noise in the world While the band approached Penrod marked the time with his feet then he fell into step and accompanied the musicians down the street keeping as near as possible to the little man with the big horn There were four or five other boys strangers also marching with the band but these were light spirits their flushed faces and prancing legs proving that they were merely in a state of emotional reaction to music Penrod on the contrary was grave he kept his eyes upon the big horn and now and then he gave an imitation of it his fingers moved upon invisible keys his cheeks puffed out and from far down in his throat he produced strange sounds Ta-pa-ta Ta-pa-ta Ta-pa-ta Pa-pa The other boys turned back when the musicians ceased to play but Penrod marched on still keeping close to what so inspired him He stayed with the band till the last member of it disappeared up a staircase in an office building down at the business end of the street and even after that he lingered a while looking at the staircase Finally however he set his face toward home wither he marched in a procession the visible part of which consisted of himself alone all the way the rhythmic movements of his head kept time with his marching feet and also with a slight rise and fall of his fingers at about the median line of his abdomen and pedestrians who encountered him in this preoccupation were not surprised to hear as he passed a few explosive little voculations Ta-pa-ta Ta-ta-ta-ha These were the outward symptoms of no fleeting impulse but of steadfast desire therefore they were persistent The likeness of the great base horn remained upon the retina of his mind's eye losing nothing of its brazen enormity with the passing of hours nor abating in his mind's ear one witt of its fascinating blatancy Penrod might have forgotten almost anything else more readily for such a horn has this double compulsion people cannot possibly keep themselves from looking at its possessor and they certainly have got to listen to him Penrod was preoccupied at dinner and during the evening now and then causing his father some irritation by croaking Ta-pa-ta-pa-ta while the latter was talking and when bed time came for the son of the house he mounted the stairs in a rhythmic manner and batawed himself through the upper hall as far as his own chamber Even after he had gone to bed there came a revival of these manifestations his mother had put out his light for him and had returned to the library downstairs three quarters of an hour had elapsed since then and Margaret was in her room next to his when a continuous low croaking which she was just able to hear suddenly broke out into loud triumphal bladdings Ta-pa-ta-pa-ta-ha-pa-ta-wa-ha-pa-ta-pa Penrod, Margaret called, stop that I'm trying to write letters if you don't quit and go to sleep I'll call Puppa up and you'll see The noise ceased or rather it tapered down to a desultory faint croaking which finally died out but there can be little doubt that Penrod's last waking thoughts were of instrumental music and in the morning when he woke to face the gloomy day's scholastic tasks something unusual and eager fond in his face with the return of memory Ta-pa-ta-ha he began PAH! all day in school and out his mind was busy with computations not such as are prescribed by mathematical pedants but estimates of how much old rags and old iron would sell for enough money to buy a horn happily the next day at lunch he was able to dismiss this problem from his mind he learned that his uncle Joe would be passing through town on his way from Nevada the following afternoon and all the Scofield family were to go to the station to see him. Penrod would be excused from school. At this news, his cheeks became pink and for a moment he was breathless. Uncle Joe and Penrod did not meet often, but when they did, Uncle Joe invariably gave Penrod money. Moreover, he always managed to do it privately so that later there was no bothersome supervision. Last time, he had given Penrod a silver dollar. At thirty-five minutes after two, Wednesday afternoon, Uncle Joe's train came into the station and Uncle Joe got out and shouted among his relatives. At eighteen minutes before three, he was waving to them from the platform of the last car, having just slipped a two dollar bill into Penrod's breast pocket. And at seven minutes after three, Penrod opened the door of the largest music store in town. A tall, exquisite fair man, evidently a musical earl, stood before him leaning whimsically upon a piano of the highest polish. The sight abashed Penrod not a bit. His remarkable financial condition even made him rather peremptory. See here, he said brusically, I want to look at that big horn in the window. Very well, said the earl, look at it, and lean more luxuriously upon the polished piano. I meant, Penrod began, but paused. Something daunted while an unnamed fear brought greater mildness into his voice as he continued. I meant, I, how much is that big horn? How much, the earl repeated. I mean, said Penrod, how much is it worth? I don't know, the earl returned. Its price is eighty-five dollars. Eighty-five, Penrod began mechanically, but was forced to pause and swallow a little air that obstructed his throat, as the difference between eighty-five and two became more and more startling. He had entered the store rich. In the last ten seconds he had become poverty-stricken. Eighty-five dollars was the same as eighty-five millions. Shall I put it aside for you? asked the salesman earl, while you look around the other stores to see if there's anything you'd like better. I guess, I guess not, said Penrod, whose face had grown red. He swallowed again, scraped the floor with the side of his right shoe, scratched the back of his neck, and then, trying to make his manner casual and easy. Well, I can't stand around here all day, he said. I got to be getting on up the street. Business, I suppose. Penrod, turning to the door, suspected jocularity, but he found himself without recourse. He was nonplussed. Sure you won't let me have that horn tied up in nice wrapping paper in case you decide to take it. Penrod was almost positive that the spirit of this question was satirical, but he was unable to reply, except by a feeble shake of the head. Though ten minutes later, as he plotted forlornly his homeward way, he looked over his shoulder and sent backwards a few words of morose repartee. Oh, I am, am I, he muttered, evidently concluding a conversation which he had continued mentally with the salesman. Well, you're double anything you call me, so that makes you a smart aleck, twice old double smart aleck. After that, he walked with the least bit more briskness, but not much. No wonder he felt discouraged. There are times when $85 can be a blow to anybody. Penrod was so stunned that he actually forgot what was in his pocket. He passed two drugstores and they had absolutely no meaning to him. He walked all the way without spending a cent. At home, he spent a moment in the kitchen pantry while the cook was in the cellar, and then he went out to the stable and began some really pathetic experiments. His materials were the small tin funnel which he had obtained in the pantry, and a short section of old garden hose. He inserted the funnel into one end of the garden hose and made it fast by wrappings of cord. Then he arranged the hose in a double circular coil and tied it so that it would remain coiled and blew into the other end. He blew and blew and blew. He set his lips tighter as he had observed a little musician with the big horn set his, and blew and sputtered and sputtered and blew, but nothing of the slightest importance happened in the orifice of the funnel. Still he blew. He began to be dizzy. His eyes watered. His expression became as horrible as a strangled persons. He but blew the more. He stamped his feet and blew. He staggered to the wheelbarrow, sat and blew, and yet the funnel uttered nothing. It seemed merely to breathe hard. It would not sound like a horn, and when Penrod finally gave up, he had to admit piteously that it did not look like a horn. No boy over nine could have pretended that it was a horn. He tossed the thing upon the floor and leaned back in the wheelbarrow, inert. Yay, Penrod! Sam Williams appeared in the doorway, and behind Sam, Master Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Jr. Yay there! Penrod made no response. The two came in, and Sam picked up the poor contrivance Penrod had tossed upon the floor. What's this old dingus? Sam asked. Nothing. Well, what's it for? Nothing, said Penrod. It's a kind of horn. What kind? For music, said Penrod simply. Master Bitts laughed loud and long. He was derisive. Music, he yipped. I thought you meant a cow's horn. He says it's a music horn, Sam. What do you think of that? Sam blew into the thing industriously. It won't work, he announced. Course it won't, Roddy Bitts shouted. You can't make it go without you got a real horn. I'm going to get me a real horn someday before long, and then you'll see me going up and down here playing it like 60. I'll someday before long, Sam marked. Yes, we will. Why don't you get it today if you're going to? I would, said Roddy. I'd go get the money from my father right now, only he wouldn't give it to me. Sam hooped and Penrod, in spite of his great depression, uttered a few jibing sounds. I'd get my father to buy me a fire engine and a team of horses, Sam bellowed, only he wouldn't. Listen, can't you? cried Roddy. I mean he would most any time, but not this month. I can't have any money for a month beginning last Saturday because I got paint on one of our dogs, and he came in the house with it on him and got some on print near everything. If it hadn't been for that, oh yes, said Sam. If it hadn't been for that, it's always something. It is not. Well then, why don't you go get a real horn? Roddy's face had flushed with irritation. Well, didn't I just tell you he began, but paused, while the renewal of some interesting recollection became visible in his expression. Why, I could if I wanted to, he said more calmly. It wouldn't be a new one, maybe. I guess it would be kind of an old one, but... Oh, a toy horn, said Sam. I expect you had one when you were three years old and your mother stuck it up in the attic to keep till you're dead or something. It's not either any toy horn, Roddy insisted. It's a regular horn for a band, and I could have it as easy as anything. The tone of this declaration was so sincere that it roused the lethargic penrod. Roddy, is that true? he sat up to inquire piercingly. Of course it is, Master Bit's return. What you take me for? I could go get that horn this minute if I wanted to. A real one, honest. Well, didn't I say it was a real one? Like in the band? I said so, didn't I? I guess you mean one of those little ones, said Penrod. No, sir, Roddy insisted stately. It's a big one. It winds around in a big circle that would go all the way around, a pretty fat man. What store is it in? It's not in any store, said Roddy. It's at my uncle Ethelbert's. He's got this horn and three or four pianos and a couple of harps and does he keep a music store? No, these harps and pianos and all are such old ones. Awful old. Oh, said Sam. He runs a second hand store. He does not, Master Bit's return angrily. He doesn't do anything. He's just got him. He's got 41 guitars. Yay, Sam whooped and jumped up and down. Listen to Roddy Bit's making up lies. You look out, Sam Williams, said Roddy, threateningly. You look out how you call me names. What name do I call you? You just the same as said, I told lies. That's just as good as calling me a liar, isn't it? No, said Sam, but I gotta write to if I want to. Haven't I, Penrod? How, Roddy demanded hotly, how you gotta write to? Because you can't prove what you said. Well, said Roddy. You'd be just as much of one if you can't prove what I said wasn't true. No, sir. You either got to prove it or be a liar. Isn't that so, Penrod? Yes, sir, Penrod ruled with a little importance. That's the way it is, Roddy. Well then, said Roddy. Come on over to my Uncle Ethelberts and I'll show you. No, said Sam. I wouldn't walk over there just to find out something I already know isn't so. Outside of a music store there isn't anybody in the world got 41 guitars. I've heard lots of people talk, but I never heard such a big, you shut up! shouted Roddy. You old Penrod interposed. Why don't you show us the horn, Roddy? He asked. You said you could get it. You show us the horn and we'll believe you. If you show us the horn, Sam will have to take what he said back. Won't you, Sam? Yes, said Sam and added. He hasn't got any. He went and told Roddy's eyes were bright with rage. He breathed noisily. I haven't, he cried. You just wait here and I'll show you. And he ran furiously from the stable. End of chapter 21.