 CHAPTER XIII. Next morning, Penrod woke in profound depression of spirit, the Cotillian ominous before him. He pictured Marjorie Jones and Maurice, graceful and light-hearted, flitting by him fairy-like, loosing silvery laughter upon him as he engaged in the struggle to keep step with a partner about four years and two feet his junior. It was hard enough for Penrod to keep step with a girl of his size. The foreboding vision remained with him, increasing in vividness throughout the forenoon. He found himself unable to fix his mind upon anything else, and having bent his gloomy footsteps towards the sawdust box after breakfast, presently descended therefrom, abandoning Harold Ramirez where he had left him the preceding Saturday. Then as he sat communing silently with Wistful Duke, in the storeroom, coquetish fortune looked his way. It was the habit of Penrod's mother not to throw away anything whatsoever until years of storage conclusively proved there would never be a use for it. But a recent house cleaning had ejected upon the back porch a great quantity of bottles and other paraphernalia of medicine left over from illnesses in the family during a period of several years. This debris, Della the Cook, had collected in a large market basket, adding to it some bottles of flavoring extracts that had proved unpopular in the household. Also old ketchup bottles, a jar or two of preserves gone bad, various rejected dental liquids and other things, and she carried the basket out to the storeroom in the stable. Penrod was at first unaware of what lay before him. Chinon Palms, he sat upon the iron rim of a former aquarium, and stared morbidly through the open door at the checkered departing back of Della. It was another who saw treasure in the basket she had left. Mr. Samuel Williams, aged eleven, and congenial to Penrod in years, sex, and disposition, appeared in the doorway, shaking into foam a black liquid within a pint bottle, stoppered by a thumb. Yay, Penrod! The visitor gave greeting. Yay, said Penrod with slight enthusiasm. What you got? Licorice water. Drinkens! Demanded Penrod promptly. This is equivalent to the cry of biters when an apple is shown, and establishes unquestionable title. Down to there, stipulated Sam, removing his thumb to affix it firmly as a mark upon the side of the bottle, a check upon gormandizing that remained carefully in place while Penrod drank. This right concluded, the visitor's eye fell upon the basket deposited by Della. He emitted tokens of pleasure. Looky, looky, looky, there! That ain't any good pile of stuff. Oh, no! What for? Drugstore, shouted Sam, will be partners! Or else, Penrod suggested, I'll run the drugstore, and you'll be a customer. No! Penrod's insisted Sam, with such conviction that his host yielded, and within ten minutes the drugstore was doing a heavy business with imaginary patrons. Improvising counters with boards and boxes, and setting forth a very druggish looking stock from the basket, each of the partners found occupation to his taste. Penrod, as salesman, and Sam as prescription clerk. Here you are, madam, said Penrod briskly, offering a vial of Sam's mixing to an invisible matron. This will cure your husband in a few minutes. Here's the camp for Mr. Colligan. Fifty cents worth of pills? Yes, madam, there you are. Hurry up with that dose for the nigger, ladybill. I'll tend to it as soon as I get the time, Jim, replied this prescription clerk. I'm busy fixing the smallpox medicine for the sick policeman downtown. Penrod stopped sales to watch this operation. Sam had found an empty pint bottle, and with the pursed lips and measuring eye of a great chemist, was engaged in filling it from other bottles. First, he poured into it some of the syrup from the convent preserves, and a quantity of extinct hair oil. Next, the remaining contents of a dozen small vials cryptically labeled with physicians' prescriptions, then some remnants of ketchup, an essence of beef, and what was left in several bottles of mouthwash. After that, a quantity of rejected flavoring extract, topping off by shaking into the mouth of the bottle various powders from small pink papers, relics of Mr. Schofield's influenza of the preceding winter. Sam examined a combination with concern, appearing unsatisfied. We gotta make that smallpox medicine good and strong, he remarked, and his artistic sense growing more powerful than his appetite, he poured about a quarter of the licorice water into the smallpox medicine. What you doin', protested Penrod? What you want to waste that licorice water for? We ought to keep it to drink when we're tired. I guess I gotta write to use my own licorice water any way I want to, replied the prescription clerk. I tell you, you can't get smallpox medicine too strong. Look at her now! He held the bottle up admiringly. Jesus, black as licorice! I bet you she's strong all right. I wonder how she tastes, said Penrod thoughtfully. Don't smell so awful much, observed Sam, sniffing the bottle. A good deal, though. I wonder if it'd make us sick to drink it, said Penrod. Sam looked at the bottle thoughtfully, then his eye wandering fell upon Duke, placidly curled up near the door, and lighted with the advent of IDNU to him. But old, old in the world, old with an Egypt. Let's give Duke some, he cried. That was the spark. They acted immediately, and a minute later Duke released from custody with a competent potion of the smallpox medicine inside him, settled conclusively their doubts concerning its effect. The patient animal, accustomed to expect the worst at all times, walked out of the door, shaking his head with an air of considerable annoyance, opening and closing his mouth with singular energy, and so repeatedly that they began to count the number of times he did it. Sam thought it was 39 times, but Penrod had counted 41 before other, and more striking symptoms appeared. All things come from Mother Earth and must return. Duke restored much at this time. Afterward he ate heartily of grass, and then over his shoulder he bent upon his master one inscrutable look, and departed feebly to the front yard. The two boys had watched the process with warm interest. I told you she was strong, said Mr. Williams proudly. Yes, sir, she is. Penrod was generous enough to admit. I expect she's strong enough. He paused and thought and added. We haven't got a horse anymore. I bet you she'd fix him if you had, said Sam. And it may be that this was no idle boast. The pharmaceutical game was not resumed. The experiment upon Duke had made the drugstore commonplace, and stimulated the appetite for stronger meat. Lounging in the doorway, the near vivisectionist sipped licorice water alternately, and conversed. I bet some of our smallpox medicine would fix old Professor Bartay, all right, quote Penrod. I wish he'd come along and ask us for some. We could tell him it was licorice water, added Sam, liking the idea. The two bottles look almost the same. Then we wouldn't have to go to his old catillon this afternoon, Penrod sighed. There wouldn't be any. Who's your partner, Pen? Who's yours? Who's yours? I just asked you. Ah, she's all right. And Penrod smiled boastfully. I bet you wanted to dance with Marjorie, said his friend. Me? I wouldn't dance with that girl if she begged me to. I wouldn't dance with her to save her from drowning. I wouldn't dance—oh no, you wouldn't, interrupted Mr. Williams skeptically. Penrod changed his tone and became persuasive. Lookie here, Sam, he said confidentially. I got a maddy nice partner, but my mother don't like her mother, and so I've been thinking I better not dance with her. I'll tell you what I'll do. I've got a mighty good sling in the house, and I'll give it to you if you'll change partners. You want to change and you don't even know who mine is, said Sam. And he made the simple though precocious deduction. Yours must be a la-la. Well, I invited Mabel Rohrbeck, and she wouldn't let me change if I wanted to. Mabel Rohrbeck had rather danced with me, he continued serenely, than anybody. She said she was awful afraid you'd ask her, but I ain't going to dance with Mabel after all, because this morning she sent me a note about her uncle died last night. And Professor Barthe will have to find me a partner after I get there. Anyway, I bet you haven't got any sling. And I bet your partner's baby Rensdale. What if she is? said Penrod. She's good enough for me. This speech held not so much modesty and solution as intended praise of the lady. Taken literally, however, it was an understatement of the facts, and wholly insincere. He-a, jeered Mr. Williams, upon whom his friend's hypocrisy was quite wasted. How can your mother not like her mother? Baby Rensdale hasn't got any, mother. You and her will be a sight. That was Penrod's own conviction, and with his corroboration of it, he grew so spiritless that he could offer no retort. He slid to a despondent sitting posture upon the door sill, and gazed wretchedly upon the ground, while his companion went to replenish the licorice water at the hydrant, enfeebling the potency of the liquor, no doubt, but making up for that in quantity. Your mother going with you to the Cotillin? asked Sam when he returned. No, she's going to meet me there. She's going somewhere first. So his mind said, Sam, I'll come by for you. All right, I better go before long. Noon whistle's been blowing. All right, Penrod repeated dully. Sam turned to go, but paused. A new straw hat was per-engrenating along the fence near the two boys. This hat belonged to someone passing upon the sidewalk of the cross-street, and the someone was Maurice Levy. Even as they stared, he halted and regarded them over the fence with two small, dark eyes. Fate had brought about this moment and this confrontation. March 2009 Penrod by Booth-Tarkington Chapter 14 Maurice Levy's Constitution Lo, Sam! said Maurice cautiously. What you doin'? Penrod at that instant had a singular experience, an intellectual shock like a flash of fire in the brain. Sitting in darkness, a great light flooded him with wild brilliance. He gasped. What you doin'? repeated Mr. Levy. Penrod sprang to his feet, seized the licorice bottle, and shook it with stopper-ing thumb and took a long drink with his strionic unction. What you doin'? asked Maurice for the third time. Sam Williams, not having decided upon a reply, it was Penrod who answered. Drinking licorice water, he said simply, and wiped his mouth with such delicious enjoyment that Sam's jaded thirst was instantly stimulated. He took the bottle eagerly from Penrod. Exclaimed Penrod, smacking his lips. That was a goodin'. The eyes above the fence glistened. Penrod whispered urgently. Quit drinkin' it. It's no good anymore. Ask him. What for? demanded the practical Sam. Go on and ask him. Whispered Penrod fiercely. Say, Maurice. Sam called, waving the bottle. Want some? Bring it here. Mr. Levy requested. Come on over and get some. Returned Sam, being prompted. I can't. Penrod scoffields after me. No, I'm not, said Penrod reassuringly. I won't touch you, Maurice. I made up with you yesterday afternoon. Don't you remember? You're all right with me, Maurice. Maurice looked undecided. But Penrod had the delectable bottle again, and tilting it above his lips, affected to let the cool liquid pearl enrichingly into him. While with his right hand, he stroked his middle of facade ineffably. Maurice's mouth watered. Here cried Sam, stirred again by the superb manifestations of his friend. Gimme that! Penrod brought the bottle down, surprisingly full after so much gusto, but withheld it from Sam. And the two scuffled for its possession. Nothing in the world could have so worked upon the desire of the yearning observer beyond the fence. Honest, Penrod? You ain't gonna touch me if I come in your yard, he called. Honest? Cross my heart, answered Penrod, holding the bottle away from Sam. And we'll let you drink all you want. Maurice hastily climbed the fence, and while he was thus occupied, Mr. Samuel Williams received a great enlightenment. With startling rapidity Penrod, standing just outside the storeroom door, extended his arm within the room, deposited the licorice water upon the counter of the drugstore, seized in its stead the bottle of smallpox medicine, and extended it cordially towards the advancing Maurice. Geniuses like that. Great simple broad strokes. Dazzled, Mr. Samuel Williams leaned against the wall. He had the sensations of one who come suddenly into the presence of a chef d'voix. Perhaps his first coherent thought was that almost universal one on such huge occasions. Why couldn't I have done that? Sam might have been even more dazzled had he guessed that he figured not altogether as a spectator in the sweeping and magnificent conception of the new tally rend. Sam had no partner for the coutillion. If Maurice was to be absent from that festivity, as it began to seem he might be, Penrod needed a male friend to take care of Miss Rensdale, and he believed he saw his way to compel Mr. Williams to be that male friend. For this he relied largely upon the prospective conduct of Miss Rensdale when he should get the matter before her. He was inclined to believe she would favor the exchange. As for tally ran Penrod himself, he was going to dance that coutillion with Marjorie Jones. You can have all you can drink at one pole, Maurice, said Penrod kindly. You said I could have all I want, protested Maurice reaching for the bottle. No, I didn't return Penrod quickly, holding it away from the eager hand. He did too, didn't he, Sam? Sam could not reply. His eyes fixed upon the bottle, protruded strangely. You heard him, didn't you, Sam? Well, if I did say it, I didn't mean it, said Penrod hastily, quoting from one of the authorities. Looky here, Maurice, he continued. Assuming a more placative and reasoning tone, that wouldn't be fair to us. I guess we want some of our own licorice water, don't we? The bottle ain't much over two thirds full anyway. What I meant was, you can have all you can drink at one pole. How do you mean? Why this way? You can gulp all you want, so long as you keep swallowing, but you can't take the bottle out of your mouth and commence again. Soon as you quit swallowing, it's Sam's turn. No, you can have next, Penrod, said Sam. Well, anyway, I mean Maurice has to give up the bottle the minute he stops swallowing. Craft appeared upon the face of Maurice, like a poster pasted on a wall. I can drink so long as I don't stop swallowing? Yes, that's it. All right, he cried, give me the bottle, and Penrod placed it in his hand. You promised to let me drink until I quit swallowing? Maurice insisted. Yes, said both boys together. With that, Maurice placed the bottle to his lips and began to drink. Penrod and Sam leaned forward in breathless excitement. They had feared Maurice might smell the contents of the bottle, but that danger was past. This was the crucial moment. Their fondest hope was that he would make his first swallow a voracious one. It was impossible to imagine a second. They expected one big gulping swallow and then an explosion, with fountain effects. Little they knew the metal of their man. Maurice swallowed once. He swallowed twice and thrice, and he continued to swallow. No, Adam's apple was sculptured on that juvenile throat, but the internal progress of the liquid was not a wit the less visible. His eyes gleamed with cunning and malicious triumph, sideways at the stunned conspirators. He was fulfilling the conditions of the draught, not once breaking the thread of that marvelous swallowing. His audience stood petrified. Already Maurice had swallowed more than they had given Duke, and still the liquor receded in the uplifted bottle. And now the clear glass gleamed above the dark contents full half the vessel's length, and Maurice went on drinking. Slowly the clear glass increased in its dimensions. Slowly the dark diminished. Sam Williams made a horrified movement to check him, but Maurice protested passionately with his disengaged arm and made vehement vocal noises remindful of the contract, whereupon Sam desisted and watched the continuing performance in a state of grisly fascination. Maurice drank it all. He drained the last drop and threw the bottle in the air, uttering loud ejaculations of triumph and satisfaction. Ha! he cried, blowing out his cheeks, inflating his chest, squaring his shoulders, patting his stomach, and wiping his mouth contentedly. Ha! ha! ha! ha! what foie! But that was good! The two boys stood looking at him in stupor. Well, I gotta say this, said Maurice graciously. You stuck to your bargain all right and treated me fair. Stricken with a sudden horrible suspicion, Penrod entered the storeroom in one stride and lifted the bottle of licorice water to his nose. Then to his lips it was weak but good. He had made no mistake. And Maurice had really drained, to the dregs, the bottle of old hair tonics, dead catch-ups, syrups of undesirable preserves, condemned extracts of vanilla and lemon, decayed chocolate, ex essences of beef, mixed dental preparations, aromatic spirits of ammonia, spirits of niter, alcohol, arnica, quinine, ipacac, salvolatile, nux vomica, and licorice water, with traces of arsenic, belladonna, and strychnine. Penrod put the licorice water out of sight and turned to face the others. Maurice was seating himself on a box just outside the door and had taken a package of cigarettes from his pocket. Nobody can see me from here, can they? He said, striking a match. You fellers smoke? No, said Sam, staring at him haggardly. No, said Penrod in a whisper. Maurice lit his cigarette and puffed showily. Well, sir, he remarked, You fellers are certainly square. I gotta say that much. Honest, Penrod, I thought you was after me. I did think so, he added, suddenly. But now I guess you liked me, or else you wouldn't have stuck to it about letting me drink it all if I kept on swallowing. He chatted on with complete geniality, smoking his cigarette in content, and as he ran from one topic to another, his hear stared at him in a kind of torpor. Never once did they exchange a glance with each other. Their eyes were frozen to Maurice. The cheerful conversationalist made it evident that he was not without gratitude. Well, he said as he finished his cigarette and rose to go. You fellers have treated me nice, and someday you come over to my yard. I'd like to run with you, fellas. You're the kind of fellers I like. Penrod's jaw fell. Sam's mouth had been open all the time. Neither spoke. I gotta go, observed Maurice, consulting a handsome watch. Gotta get dressed for the gatillion right after lunch. Come on, Sam. Don't you have to go too? Sam nodded daisily. Well, goodbye, Penrod, said Maurice cordially. I'm glad you liked me all right. Come on, Sam. Penrod leaned against the doorpost and with fixed and glazing eyes, watched the departure of his two visitors. Maurice was talking volubly, with much gesticulation as they went. But Sam walked mechanically and in silence, staring at his brisk companion and keeping at a little distance from him. They passed from sight. Maurice still conversing gaily, and Penrod slowly betook himself into the house, his head bowed upon his chest. Some three hours later, Mr. Samuel Williams, wax and clean and in sweet raiment, made his reappearance in Penrod's yard, yodeling a code signal to summon forth his friend. He yodeled loud, long, and frequently, finally securing a faint response from the upper air. Where are you? shouted Mr. Williams, his roving glance searching ambient heights. Another low-spirited yodel reaching his ear, he perceived the head and shoulders of his friend projecting above the roof ridge of the stable. The rest of Penrod's body was concealed from view, reposing upon the opposite slant of the gable and precariously secured by the croaking of his elbows over the ridge. Yay, what are you doing up there? Nothing. You better be careful, Sam called. You'll slide off and fall down in the alley if you don't look out. I come pert near it last time we was up there. Come on down. Ain't you going to the cattillon? Penrod made no reply. Sam came nearer. Say, he called up in a guarded voice. I went to our telephone a while ago and asked him how he was feeling, and he said he felt fine. So did I, said Penrod. He told me he felt bully. Sam thrust his hands in his pocket and brooded. The opening of the kitchen door caused a diversion. It was Delo. Mr. Penrod? She bellowed forthwith. Come on down from up there. Your mom is at the dancing class waiting for you and she's telephoned me if they're going to begin. And what's the matter with you? Come on down from up there. Come on, urge Sam. We'll be late. There go Maurice and Marjorie now. A glittering car spun by, disclosing briefly a genre picture of Marjorie Jones in pink, supporting a monstrous sheaf of American beauty roses. Maurice, sitting shining in joyous beside her, saw both boys and waved them a hearty greeting as the car turned the corner. Penrod uttered some muffled words and then waved both arms either in response or as an expression of his condition of mind. It may have been a gesture of despair. How much intention there was in this act, obviously so rash considering the position he occupied, it is impossible to say. Undeniably, there must remain a suspicion of deliberate purpose. Delo screamed and Sam shouted. Penrod had disappeared from view. The delayed dance was about to begin a most uneven coutillion when Samuel Williams arrived. Mrs. Schofield hurriedly left the ballroom, but while Miss Rensdale, flushing with sudden happiness, curtsied profoundly to Professor Bartet and obtained his attention. I have told you fifty times, he informed her passionately, ere she spoke. I cannot make no such changes. If your partner comes, you have to dance with him. You are going to drive me crazy, sure? What is it? What now? What do you want? The damsel curtsied again and handed him the following communication addressed to herself. Dear Madam, please excuse me from dancing the coutillon with you this afternoon as I have fell off the barn. Sincerely yours, Penrod Schofield. Penrod, by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 15 The Two Families Penrod entered the schoolroom Monday, picturesquely leaning upon a man's cane shortened to support a cripple approaching the age of twelve. He arrived about twenty minutes late, limping deeply, his brave young mouth drawn with pain, and the sensation he created must have been a solace to him. The only possible criticism of this entrance being that it was just a shade too heroic. Perhaps for that reason it failed to stagger Miss Spence, a woman so saturated with suspicion that she penalized Penrod for tardiness as promptly and as coldly as if he had been a mere ordinary, unmutilated boy. Nor would she entertain any discussion of the justice of her ruling. It seemed almost that she feared to argue with him. However, the distraction of Cain and Limp remained to him, consolations which he protracted far into the week, until Thursday evening in fact, when Mr. Schofield, observing from a window his son's pursuit of Duke round and round the backyard, confiscated the cane with the promise that it should not remain idle if he saw Penrod limping again. Thus, succeeding a depressing Friday, another Saturday brought the necessity for new inventions. It was a scented morning in apple blossom time. At about ten o'clock, Penrod emerged hastily from the kitchen door. His pockets bulged abnormally, so did his cheeks, and he swallowed with difficulty. A threatening mop, wielded by a cook-like arm in a checkered sleeve, followed him through the doorway, and he was preceded by a small, hurried, wistful dog with a warm donut in his mouth. The kitchen door slammed petulantly, enclosing the sore voice of Della, whereupon Penrod and Duke seated themselves upon the pleasant sward and immediately consumed the spoils of their raid. From the cross street, which formed the side boundary of the Schofield's ample yard, came a jingle of harness and the cadence clatter of a pair of trotting horses, and Penrod, looking up, beheld the passing of a fat acquaintance, torped amid the conservative splendors of a rather old-fashioned Victoria. This was Roderick Maggsworth Bitts, Jr., a fellow sufferer at the Friday afternoon dancing class, but otherwise not often a companion. A home sheltered lad, tutored privately and preserved against the coarsening influence of rude comradeship and miscellaneous information. Heavily overgrown in all physical dimensions, virtuous and placid, this cloistered mutton was wholly uninteresting to Penrod's Schofield. Nevertheless, Roderick Maggsworth Bitts, Jr. was a personage on account of the importance of the Maggsworth Bitts family. It was Penrod's destiny to increase Roderick's celebrity far, far beyond its present aristocratic limitations. The Maggsworth Bitts's were important because they were impressive. There was no other reason, and they were impressive because they believed themselves important. The adults of the family were impregnably formal. They dressed with reticent elegance and wore the same nose and the same expression, an expression which indicated that they know something exquisite and sacred which other people could never know. Other people, in their presence, were apt to feel mysteriously ignoble and to become secretly uneasy about ancestors, gloves and pronunciation. The Maggsworth Bitts manner was withholding and reserved, though sometimes gracious, granting small smiles as great favors and giving off a chilling kind of preciousness. Naturally, when any citizen of the community did anything unconventional or improper or made a mistake or had a relative who went wrong, that citizen's first and worst fear was that the Maggsworth Bitts's would hear of it. In fact, this painful family had for years terrorized the community, though the community had never realized that it was terrorized and invariably spoke of the family as the most charming circle in town. By common consent, Mrs. Roderick Maggsworth Bitts officiated as the supreme model as well as critic and chief of morals and deportment for all the unlucky people prosperous enough to be elevated to her acquaintance. Maggsworth was the important part of the name. Mrs. Roderick Maggsworth Bitts was a Maggsworth born herself and the Maggsworth crest decorated not only Mrs. Maggsworth Bitts' note paper but was on the china, on the table linen, on the chimney pieces, on the opaque glass of the front door, on the Victoria, on the harness, though omitted from the garden hose in the lawnmower. Naturally, no sensible person dreamed of connecting that illustrious crest with the unfortunate and notorious Rena Maggsworth whose name had grown week by week into larger and larger type upon the front pages of newspapers owing to the gradually increased public and official belief that she had poisoned a family of eight. However, the statement that no sensible person could have connected the Maggsworth Bitts family with the arsonical Rena takes no account of Penrod Schofield. Penrod never missed a murder a hanging or an electrocution in the newspapers. He knew almost as much about Rena Maggsworth as her juryman did though they sat in a courtroom 200 miles away and he had it in mind so frank as he was to ask Roderick Maggsworth Bitts Jr. if the murderers happened to be a relative. The present encounter being merely one of apathetic greeting did not afford the opportunity. Penrod took off his cap and Roderick seated between his mother and one of his grown-up sisters nodded sluggishly but neither Mrs. Maggsworth Bitts nor her daughter acknowledged the salutation of the boy in the yard. They disapproved of him as a person of little consequences and that little, bad, snubbed Penrod thoughtfully restored his cap to his head. A boy can be cut as effectually as a man and this one was chilled to a low temperature. He wondered if they despised him because they had seen the last fragment of donor in his hand then he had thought that perhaps it was Duke who had disgraced him. Duke was certainly no fashionable looking dog. The resilient spirits of youth however presently revived and discovering a spider upon one knee and a beetle simultaneously upon the other. Penrod forgot Mrs. Roderick Maggsworth Bitts in the course of some experiments infringing upon the domain of Dr. Carell. Penrod's efforts, with the aid of a pin, to affect the transference of living organism were unsuccessful but he convinced himself forever that a spider cannot walk with beetle's legs. Tella then enhanced zoological interest by depositing upon the back porch a large rat trap from the cellar the prison of four live rats awaiting execution. Penrod at once took possession retiring to the empty stable where he installed the rats in a small wooden box with a sheet of broken window glass held down by a brick bat over the top. Thus the symptoms of their agitation when the box was shaken or hammered upon could be studied at leisure. All together this Saturday was starting splendidly. After a time the student's attention was withdrawn from his specimens by a peculiar smell which, being followed up by a system of selective sniffing, proved to be an emanation leaking into the stable from the alley. He opened the back door. Across the alley was a cottage which a thrifty neighbor had built on the rear line of his lot and rented to Negroes. Then the fact that a Negro family was now in process of moving in was manifested by the presence of a thin mule and a ramshackle wagon. The latter laden with the semblance of a stove and a few other unpretentious household articles. A very small darky boy stood near the mule. In his hand was a rusty chain and at the end of the chain the delighted Penrod perceived the source of the special smell he was tracing. A large raccoon. Duke, who had not shown the slightest interest in the rats, set up a frantic barking and simulated a ravening assault upon the strange animal. It was only a bit of acting however for Duke was an old dog, had suffered much and desired no unnecessary sorrow. Whereupon he confined his demonstrations to hilarums and excursions and presently sat down in a distance and expressed himself by intermittent threatenings in a quavering falsetto. What's that coon's name? asked Penrod, intending no discurting. Aim gummo mame. Said this small darky. What? Aim gummo mame. What? The small darky looked annoyed. Aim gummo mame. I hell you. He said impatiently. Penrod conceived that an assault was intended. What's the matter of you? he demanded advancing. You get fresh with me and I'll, hiya, white boy. A colored youth of Penrod's own age appeared in the doorway of the cottage. You let our brother of mine alone. He ain't do nothing to you. Well, why can't he answer? He can't. He can't talk no better what he was talking. He tongue-tied. Oh, said Penrod, mollified. Then obeying an impulse so universally aroused in the human breast under like circumstances that it has become equipped, he turned to the afflicted one. Talk some more, he begged eagerly. I hell you. Aim gummo mame. Was the prompt response, in which a small ostentation was manifest. Unmistakable tokens of vanity had appeared upon the small swerve countenance. What's he mean? As Penrod enchanted. He said he told you that coup ain't got no name. What's your name? I'm name Herman. What's his name? Penrod pointed to the tongue-tied boy. Vermin. What? Vermin. Was three of us boys in our family? Ole's name Sherman. Then come me, I'm Herman. Then come him, he Vermin. Sherman dead. Vermin, heed a littlest one. You going to live here? I'm hum. Done move him from out on a farm. He pointed to the north with his right hand, and Penrod's eyes opened wide as they followed the gesture. Herman had no forefinger on that hand. Look there, exclaimed Penrod. You haven't got any finger. I'm a map, said Vermin, with egregious pride. He done at, interpreted Herman, chuckling. Yes, sir. Done chopper spang off long go. He's playing with an axe, and I lay him a finger on the seal and say, Vermin, chopper off. So, Vermin, he chopper right off, spang down to the roots. Yes, sir. What for? Just for nothing. He homie who? remarked Vermin. Yes, sir. I told him to, said Herman, and he chopper off. And ain't area the one ever gone on where still one used to grow, no sir. But what'd you tell him to do it for? Nothing. I have said it that way, and he just chopper off. Both brothers looked pleased and proud. Penrod's profound interest was flatteringly visible, a tribute to their unusualness. Hembao goi, suggested Vermin eagerly. All right, said Herman, our sister Queenie, she a grown up woman. She got a goida. Got a what? Goida, swelling on her neck, great big swelling. She happened Mammy move in round. You look into front room window where she's sweeping, you can see it on her. Penrod looked in the window, and was rewarded by a fine view of Queenie's goider. He had never before seen one, and only the lure of further conversation on the part of Vermin brought him from the window. Vaman say tell you about Pappy, exclaimed Herman. Mammy and Queenie move in town and go get the house all fixed up before Pappy get out. Out of where? Jail. Pappy cut a man, and a police done kept him in jail ever since, Christmas time. But they going to turn him loose again next week. What'd he cut the other man with? With a pitchfock. Penrod began to feel that a lifetime spent with this fascinating family were all too short. The brothers, glowing with amiability, were as enraptured as he. For the first time in their lives, they moved in the rich glamour of sensationalism. Herman was a prodigal of gesture with his right hand, and Vermin, chuckling with delight, talked fluently, though somewhat consciously. They cheerfully agreed to keep the raccoon, already beginning to be mentioned as our coon by Penrod, in Mr. Schofield's Empty Stable. And when the animal had been chained to the wall near the box of rats and supplied with a pan of fair water, they assented to their new friend's suggestion, inspired by a fine sense of the artistic harmonies that the here to fore nameless pet be christened Sherman in honor of their deceased relative. At this juncture was heard from the front yard the sound of that yodeling, which is the peculiar accomplishments of those whose voices have not changed. Penrod yodeled a response, and Mr. Samuel Williams appeared, a large bundle under his arm. Yay, Penrod was his greeting, casual enough from without, but having entered, he stopped short and a minute a prodigious whistle. Yay, he then shouted, look at the coon. I guess you better say look at the coon, Penrod returned proudly. There's a good deal more in him to look at too. Talk some, Vermin. Vermin complied. Sam was warmly interested. What did you say his name was? He asked. Vermin, how do you spell it? V-E-R-M-A-N replied Penrod, having previously received this information from Herman. Oh, said Sam. Point to something, Herman, Penrod commanded, and Sam's excitement when Herman pointed was sufficient to the occasion. Penrod, the discoverer, continued his exploitation of the manifold wonders of the Sherman, Herman and Vermin collection. With the air of a proprietor, he escorted Sam into the alley for a good look at Queenie, who seemed not to care for her increasing celebrity, and proceeded to a dramatic climax, the recital of the episode of the pitchfork and its consequences. The culminating effect was enormous, and could have but one possible result. The normal boy is always at least one half Barnum. Let's get up a show! Penrod and Sam both claimed to have said it first. A question left unsettled in the ecstasies of a hurried preparation. The bundle under Sam's arm, brought with no definite purpose, proved to have been an inspiration. It consisted of broad sheets of light yellow wrapping paper, discarded by Sam's mother in her spring house cleaning. There were half-filled cans and buckets of paint in the storeroom adjoining the carriage house, and presently the sidewall of the stable flamed information upon the passerby from a great and spreading poster. Publicity, primal requisite of all theatrical and amphitheatrical enterprises thus provided, subsequent arrangements proceeded with a fury of energy which transformed the empty hayloft. True, it is impossible to say just what the hayloft was transformed into, but history warrantably clings to the statement that it was transformed. Duke and Sherman were secured to the rear wall at a considerable distance from each other after an exhibition of reluctance on the part of Duke, during which he displayed a nervous energy and agility almost miraculous in so small and middle age to dog. Benches were improvised for spectators. The rats were brought up, finally the rafters, the corn crib, and hay chute were ornamented with flags and strips of buntings from Sam Williams' attic, Sam returning from an excursion wearing an old silk hat and accompanied on account of a rope by a fine doxin encountered on the highway. In the matter of personal decoration, paint was generously used, an interpretation of the spiral, inclining to whites and greens becoming brilliantly effective upon the dark facial backgrounds of Herman and Verman. While the countenances of Sam and Penrod were each supplied with black moustache and imperial, lacking which no professional showman can be esteemed conscientious. It was regrettably decided in council that no attempt be made to add Queenie to the list of exhibits. Her brothers warmly declined to act as ambassadors in that cause. They were certain Queenie would not like the idea, they said, and Herman picturesquely described her activity on occasions when she had been annoyed by too much attention to her appearance. However, Penrod's disappointment was alleviated by an inspiration which came to him in a moment of pondering upon the doxin, and the entire party went forth to add an enriching line to the poster. They found a group of seven, including two adults already gathered in the street to read and admire this work. Schofield and Williams, Big Show. Admission, one cent, or twenty pins. Museum of curiosities now going on. Sherman, Herman and Verman. Their fathers in jail stabbed a man with a pitchfork. Sherman, the wild animal captured in Africa. Herman, the one-fingered, tattooed wild man. Verman, the savage tattooed wild boy, talks only in his native languages. Do not fail to see Duke, the Indian dog, also the Michigan trained rats. A heated argument took place between Sam and Penrod. The pointed issue being settled, finally, by the drawing of straws, whereupon Penrod, with pardonable self-importance, in the presence of an audience now increased to nine, slowly painted the words inspired by the doxin. Important, do not miss the South American dog part alligator. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of Penrod. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Read by Jonathan Burchard, April 2009. Chapter 16, A New Star. Sam, Penrod, Herman and Verman, withdrew in considerable state from nonpaying view, and repairing to the hayloft declared the exhibition open to the public. Oral proclamation was made by Sam, and then the loitering multitude was enticed by seductive strains of a band. The two partners performing upon combs and paper, Herman and Verman upon tin pans with sticks. The effect was immediate. Visitors appeared upon the stairway and sought admission. Herman and Verman took position among the exhibits near the wall. Sam stood at the entrance, officiating his barker and ticket seller, while Penrod, with debonair suavity, acted as curator, master of ceremonies and lecturer. He greeted the first to enter with a courtly bow. They consisted of Miss Rensdale and her nursery governess, and they paid spot cash for their admission. Walk in, ladies! Walk right in! Pray do not obstruct the passageway, said Penrod, in a remarkable voice. Pray be seated! There is room for each and all. Miss Rensdale and governess were followed by Mr. Georgie Bassett and baby sister. Which proves the perfection of Georgie's character. And six or seven other neighborhood children, a most satisfactory audience, although subsequent to Miss Rensdale and governess, admission was wholly by pin. Gentlemen and ladies, shouted Penrod, I will first call your attention to our genuine South American dog, part alligator! He pointed to the doxen and added in his ordinary tone. That's him. Straightway, re-assuming the character of showman, he bellowed. Next, you see Duke, the genuine, full-blooded Indian dog from the far western plains and rocky mountains. Next, the trained Michigan rats captured way up there and trained to jump and run all over the box at the, at the, at the slightest pre-text. He paused partly to take breath and partly to enjoy his own surpassed discovery that this phrase was in his vocabulary. At the slightest pre-text, he repeated and continued, suiting the action to the word. I will now hammer upon the box and each and all may see the genuine, full-blooded Michigan rats perform at the slightest pre-text. There! That's all they do now. But I and Sam are going to train them lots more before this afternoon. Gentlemen and ladies, I will kindly now call your attention to Sherman, the wild animal from Africa, costing the lives of the wild trapper and many of his companions. Next, let me kindly introduce to you Herman and Vermin. Their father got mad and stuck his pitchfork right inside of another man, exactly as promised upon the advertisements outside the Big Tent and no extra charge. And remember, you are each and all now looking at two wild, tattooed men with which the father of is in jail. Point, Herman. Each and all will have a chance to see. Point to something else, Herman. This is the only genuine, one-fingered tattooed wild man. Last on the program, gentlemen and ladies, we have Vermin, the savage, tattooed wild boy that can't speak only his native foreign languages. Talk some, Vermin! Vermin obliged and made an instantaneous hit. He was on-cord rapturously again and again and thrilling with the unique pleasure of being introduced and misunderstood at the same time would have talked all day but too gladly. Sam Williams, however, with a true showman's foresight, whispered to Penrod who rang down on the monologue. Gentlemen and ladies, this closes our performance. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible. As soon as you are all out, there's going to be a new performance and each and all are welcome at the same and simple price of admission. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible. Remember, the price is only one cent, the tenth part of a dime or 20 pins. No bent one's taken. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible. The Scofield and Williams Military Band will play before each performance and each and all are welcome for the same and simple price at admission. Pray pass out quietly and with as little jostling as possible. Fourth with, the Scofield and Williams Military Band began a second overture in which something vaguely like a tune was at times distinguishable. And all of the first audience returned, most of them having occupied the interval in hasty excursions for more pins. Miss Renzale in governance, however, again paying coin of the Republic and receiving deference in the best seats accordingly. And when a third performance found all the same inveterate patrons once again more crowding the auditorium and seven recruits added, the pleasurable excitement of the partners in their venture will be understood by anyone who has seen a metropolitan manager strolling about the foyer of his theater some evening during the earlier stages of an assured phenomenal run. From the first, there was no question which feature of the entertainment was the attraction extraordinary, vermin, vermin the savage tattooed wild boy speaking only in his native foreign languages. Vermin was a triumph, beaming, read and smiles, melodious, incredibly fluent. He had but to open his lips and a dead hush fell upon the audience. Breathless, they leaned forward hanging upon his every semi-syllable and when Penrod checked the flow burst into thunders of applause which vermin received with happy laughter. Alas, he delayed not or long to display all the egregiousness of a new star, but for a time there was no caprice of his too eccentric to be forgiven. During Penrod's lecture upon the other curios, the tattooed wild boy continually stamped his foot, grinned and gesticulated, tapping his tiny chest and pointing to himself as it were to say, wait for me, I am the big show. So soon they learn, so soon they learn. And again, alas, this spoiled darling of public favor, like many and other, was fated to know in good time the fickleness of that favor. But during all the morning performances he was the idol of his audience and looked it. The climax of his popularity came during the fifth overture of the Schofield and Williams military band when the music was quite drowned in the agitated clamors of Miss Rensdale who was endeavoring to ascend the stairs in spite of the physical dissuasion of her governess. I won't come to lunch screamed Miss Rensdale, her voice accompanying by the sound of ripping. I will hear the tattooed wild boy talk some more. It's lovely. I will hear him talk. I will. I want to listen to Vermin. I want to. I want to. Wailing, she was born away. Of her sex not the first to be fascinated by obscurity, nor the last to champion its eloquence. Vermin was almost unendurable after this, but like many other managers, Schofield and Williams restrained their collar and even laughed fulsomely when their principal attraction assayed the role of a comedian in private and capered and squopped in sheer fatuous vanity. The first performance of the afternoon rivaled the successes of the morning and although Miss Rensdale was detained at home, thus drying up the single source of cash income developed before lunch, Maurice Levy appeared escorting Marjorie Jones and paid coin for two admissions, dropping the money into Sam's hand with a careless, nay, a contemptuous gesture. At sight of Marjorie, Penrod Schofield flushed under his new moustache, repainted since noon, and lectured as he had never lectured before. A new grace invested his every gesture, a new sonorousness rang in his voice. A simple and manly pomposity marked his very walk as he passed from curio to curio, and when he fearlessly handled the box of rats and hammered upon it with cool insouciance, he beheld for the first time in his life a pearl of admiration eddying in Marjorie's lovely eye. A certain softening of that eye, and then, vermin's bake and Penrod was forgotten. Marjorie's eye rested upon him no more. A heavily equipped chauffeur ascended the stairway, bearing the message that Mrs. Levy awaited her son and his lady. Thereupon, having devoured the last sound permitted by the managers to issue from vermin, Mr. Levy and Ms. Jones departed to a real matinee at a real theater, the limpid eyes of Marjorie looking back softly over her shoulder, but only at the tattooed wild boy. Nearly always it is woman who puts the irony into life. After this, perhaps because of sated curiosity, perhaps on account of a pin famine, the attendance began to languish. Only four responded to the next call of the band, the four dwindled to three, and finally the entertainment was given for one blasé auditor, and Scofield and Williams looked depressed. Then followed an interval when the band played in vain. About three o'clock, Scofield and Williams were gloomily discussing various unpromising devices for startling the public into a renewal of interest, when another patron unexpectedly appears and paid a cent for his admission. News of the big show and Museum of Curiosities had at last penetrated the far cold spaces of interstellar niceness for this new patron consisted of no less than Roderick Magsworth Bitt's Jr., escaped in white sailor suit from the manor during a period of severe maternal and tutorial preoccupation. He seated himself without parlay and the performance was offered for his entertainment with admiral conscientiousness. True to the Lady Clara cast and training, Roderick's pale, fat face expressed nothing, except an impervious superiority, and as he sat, cold and unimpressed upon the front bench, like a large white lump, it must be said that he made a discouraging audience to play to. He was not, however, unresponsive, far from it. He offered comment very chilling to the warm grand eloquence of the orator. That's my Uncle Ethelbert's doxin, he remarked at the beginning of the lecture. You better take him back if you don't want to get arrested, and when Penrod, rather uneasily ignoring the interruption, proceeded to the exploitation of the genuine full-blooded Indian dog, Duke. Why don't you try to give that dog away? asked Roderick. You couldn't sell him. My papa would buy me lots better coon than that, was the information volunteered a little later. Only I wouldn't want the nasty old thing. Herman, of the missing finger, obtained no greater indulgence. Said Roderick, we have two fox terriers in our stables that took prizes at the kennel show, and their tails were bit off. There's a man that always bites fox terriers' tails off. Oh my gosh, what a lie, exclaimed Sam Williams ignorantly. Go on with the show whether he likes it or not, Penrod. He's paid his money. Vermin, confident of his singular powers, chuckled openly at the failure of the other attractions to charm the frosty visitor, and when his turn came, poured forth a torrent of conversation which was straightway damned. Rotten, said Mr. Bitts languidly. Anybody could talk like that. I could do it if I wanted to. Vermin paused suddenly. Yes, you could, exclaimed Penrod stung. Let's hear you do it then. Yes, sir, the other partner shouted. Let's just hear you do it. I said I could if I wanted to. Responded Roderick. I didn't say I would. Yay, he knows he can't. Sneered Sam. I can too if I try. Well, let's hear you try. So challenged, the visitor did try. But in the absence of an impartial jury, his effort was considered so pronounced to failure that he was howled down, derided, and mocked with great clamors. Anyway, said Roderick, when things had quieted down. If I couldn't get up a better show than this, I'd sell out and leave town. Not having enough presence of mind to inquire what he would sell out, his adversaries replied with mere formless yells of scorn. I could get up a better show than this with my left hand, Roderick asserted. Well, what would you have in your old show? Asked Penrod, condescending to language. That's all right. What I'd have, I'd have enough. You couldn't get Herman and Vermin in your old show. No, and I wouldn't want them either. Well, what would you have, insisted Penrod derisively? You'd have to have something. You couldn't be a show yourself. How do you know? This was but meandering while waiting for ideas, and evoked another yell. You think you could be a show all by yourself? Demanded Penrod. How do you know? I couldn't. Two white boys and two black boys shrieked a scorn of the boaster. I could too, Roderick raised his voice to a sudden howl, obtaining a hearing. Well, why don't you tell us how? Well, I know how, all right, said Roderick. If anybody asks you, you can just tell them I know how, all right? Why, you can't do anything, Sam began argumentatively. You talk about being a show all by yourself. What could you try to do? Show us something you can do. I didn't say I was going to do anything, returned the badgered one, still evading. Well, then how'd you be a show? Penrod demanded. We got a show here, even if Herman didn't point or vermin didn't talk. Their father stabbed a man with a pitchfork, I guess, didn't he? How do I know? Well, I guess he's in jail, ain't he? Well, what if their father's in jail? I didn't say he wasn't, did I? Well, your father ain't in jail, is he? Well, I never said he was, did I? Well, then continued Penrod. How could you be a... He stopped abruptly, staring at Roderick, the birth of an idea plainly visible in his altered expression. He had suddenly remembered his intention to ask Roderick Magsworth-Bitts, Jr. about Rena Magsworth, and this recollection collided in his mind with the irritation produced by Roderick's claiming some mysterious attainment which would warrant his setting up as a show in his single person. Penrod's whole manner changed instantly. Roddy, he asked, almost overwhelmed by a prescience of something vast and magnificent. Roddy, are you any relation of Rena Magsworth? Roderick had never heard of Rena Magsworth, although a concentration of the sentence yesterday pronounced upon her had burned black and horrific upon the face of every newspaper in the country. He was not allowed to read the journals of the day, and his family's indignation over the sacrilegious coincidence of the name had not been expressed in his presence. But he saw it was an awesome name to Penrod Schofield and Samuel Williams. Even Herman and Verman, though lacking many educational advantages on account of a long residence in the country, were informed on the subject of Rena Magsworth through hearsay and they joined in the portentious silence. Roddy, repeated Penrod honest, is Rena Magsworth some relation of yours? There is no obsession more dangerous to its victim than a conviction, especially an inherited one, of superiority. This world is so full of Missourians, and from his earliest years, Roderick Magsworth Bitt's junior had been trained to believe in the importance of the Magsworth family. At every meal he absorbed a sense of Magsworth greatness, and yet in his infrequent meetings of persons of his own age and sex, he was treated as negligible. Now dimly he perceived that there was a Magsworth claim of some sort, which was impressive, even to boys. Magsworth blood was the essential of all true distinction in the world he knew. Consequently, having been driven into a cul-de-sac as a result of flagrant and unfounded boasting, he was ready to take advantage of what appeared to be a triumphal way out. Roddy, said Penrod again with solemnity, is Rena Magsworth some relation of yours? Is she, Roddy? asked Sam almost hoarsely. She's my aunt! shouted Roddy. Silence followed. Sam and Penrod spellbound, gazed upon Roderick Magsworth Bitt's junior. So determined and vermin, Roddy's staggering lie had changed the face of things utterly. No one questioned it, no one realized that it was much too good to be true. Roddy, said Penrod, in a voice tremulous with hope, Roddy, will you join our show? Roddy joined. Even he could see that the offer implied he's being starred as the paramount attraction of a new order of things. It was obvious that he had swelled out suddenly in the estimation of the other boys to that important which he had been taught to believe his native gift and natural right. The sensation was pleasant. He had often been treated with effusion by grown-up collars and by acquaintances of his mothers and sisters. He had heard Lady Speak of him as charming and that delightful child, and little girls had sometimes shown him deference. But until this moment, no boy had ever allowed him, for one moment, to presume even to equality. Now, in a trice, he was not only admitted to comradeship, but patently valued as something rare and sacred to be acclaimed and pedestaled. In fact, the very first thing that Schofield and Williams did was to find a box for him to stand upon. The misgivings roused in Marduk's bosom by the subsequent activities of the firm were not bothersome enough to make him forgo his prominences Exhibit A. He was not a quick-minded boy, and it was long and much happened before he thoroughly comprehended the causes of his new celebrity. He had a shadowy feeling that if the affair came to be heard of at home, it might not be liked. But intoxicated by the glamour and bustle which surrounded a public character, he made no protest. On the contrary, he entered wholeheartedly into the preparations for the new show. Assuming, with Sam's assistance of blue moustache and sideburns, he helped in the painting of a new poster which, supplanting the old one on the wall of the stable facing the cross street, screamed bloody murder at the passers in that rather populist thoroughfare. Schofield and Williams' new big show, Roderick Magsworth Bitts Jr., only living nephew of Rina Magsworth, the famous murderist going to be hung next July, killed eight people, put arsenic in their milk, also Sherman, Herman and Vermin, the Michigan rats, dog part alligator, duke the genuine Indian dog and mission one cent or twenty pin same as before. Do not miss this chance to see Roderick, only living nephew of Rina Magsworth, the great famous murderist going to be hung. End of Chapter 16. Chapter 17 of Penrod. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Jonathan Birchard, March 2009. Chapter 17, retiring from the show business. Megaphones were constructed out of heading wrapping paper and Penrod, Sam and Herman set out in different directions, delivering vocally the inflammatory proclamation of the poster to a large section of the residential quarter and leaving Roderick Magsworth Bitts, Jr. with Vermin in the loft, shielded from all deadhead eyes. Upon the return of the heralds, the Schofield and Williams military band played definitely and an awakened public once more thronged to fill the coffers of the firm. Prosperity smiled again. The very first audience after the acquisition of Roderick was larger than the largest of the morning. Master Bitts, the only exhibit placed upon a box, was a Super Curio. All eyes fastened upon him and remained hungrily feasting throughout Penrod's luminous aeration. But the glory of one light must ever be the dimming of another. We dwell in a veil of seesaws and cobwebs been fastest upon laurel. Vermin, the tattooed wild boy speaking only in his native foreign languages, Vermin the gay, Vermin the caper, capered no more. He chuckled no more, he beckoned no more, nor tapped his chest, nor read his idolatrous face in smiles. Gone, all gone, were his little artifices for attracting the general attention to himself. Gone was every engaging mannerism which had endeared him to the mercurial public. He squatted against the wall and gloured at the new sensation. It was the old story, the old, old story of too much temperament. Vermin was suffering from artistic jealousy. The second audience contained a cash-paying adult, a spectacled young man whose poignant attention was very flattering. He remained after the lecture and put a few questions to Roddy, which were answered rather confusedly upon promptings from Penrod. The young man went away without having stated the object of his interrogations, but it became quite plain later in the day. This same object caused the spectacled young man to make several brief but stimulating calls directly after leaving the Scofield and Williams Big Show, and the consequences thereof loitered not by the wayside. The Big Show was at high tide. Not only was the auditorium filled in throbbing, there was an indubitable line, by no means wholly juvenile, waiting for admission to the next performance. A group stood in the street examining the poster earnestly as it glowed in the long, slanting rays of the westward sun, and people in automobiles and other vehicles had halted wheel in the street to read the message so frequently delivered to the world. These were the conditions when a crested Victoria arrived at the gallop and a large, chastely magnificent and highly flushed woman descended and progressed across the yard with an air of violence. At sight of her, the adults of the waiting line hastily disappeared, and most of the pausing vehicles moved instantly on their way. She was followed by a stricken man in livery. The stairs to the auditorium were narrow and steep. Mrs. Roderick Magsworth-Bitz was of stout favor, and the voice of Penrod was audible during the ascent. Remember, gentlemen and ladies, each and all are now gazing upon Roderick Magsworth-Bitz Jr., the only living nephew of the great Rina Magsworth. She stuck arsenic in the milk of eight separate and distinct people to put in their coffee, and each and all of them died. The great arsenic murderous Rina Magsworth, gentlemen and ladies, and Roddy's her only living nephew. She's a relation of all the Bitz family, but he's her one and only living nephew. Remember, next July, she's going to be hung, and each and all you now see before you, Penrod paused abruptly, seeing something before himself, the august and awful presence which filled the entryway, and his words it should be related a froze upon his lips. Before herself, Mrs. Roderick Magsworth-Bitz saw her son, her scion, wearing a moustache and sideburns of blue, and perched upon a box flanked by Sherman and Vermin, the Michigan rats, the Indian dog Duke, Herman, and the dog part alligator. Roddy also saw something before himself. It needed no profit to read the countenance of the dread apparition in the entryway. His mouth opened, remained open, then filled to capacity with a calamitous sound of grief not unmingled with apprehension. Penrod's reason staggered under the crisis. For a horrible moment, he saw Mrs. Roderick Magsworth-Bitz approaching like some fatal mountain in Avalanche. She seemed to grow larger and redder, lightnings played about her head. He had a vague consciousness of the audience sprang out in flight of the squealings, tramplings, and dispersals of a stricken field. The mountain was close upon him. He stood by the open mouth of the hay chute which went through the floor to the manger below. Penrod also went through the floor. He propelled himself into the chute and shot down, but not quite to the manger, for Mr. Samuel Williams had thoughtfully stepped into the chute a moment in advance of his partner. Penrod lit upon Sam. Catastrophic noises resounded in the loft. Volcanoes seemed to romp upon the stairway. There ensued a period when only a shrill keening marked the passing of Roderick as he was born to the tumble. Then all was silence. Sunset, striking through a western window, rused the walls of the Schofields Library, where gathered a joint family council and court-martial of four. Mrs. Schofield, Mr. Schofield, and Mr. and Mrs. Williams, parents of Samuel of that ilk. Mr. Williams read aloud a conspicuous passage from the last edition of the evening paper. Prominent people here believed close relations of woman's sentence to hang. Angry denial by Mrs. R. Magsworth-Bitts, relationship admitted by younger member of family, his statement confirmed by boyfriends. Don't, said Mrs. Williams, addressing her husband vehemently. We've all read it a dozen times. We've got plenty of trouble on our hands without hearing that again. Singularly enough, Mrs. Williams did not look troubled. She looked as if she were trying to look troubled. Mrs. Schofield wore a similar expression. So did Mr. Schofield. So did Mr. Williams. What did she say when she called you up? Mrs. Schofield inquired breathlessly of Mrs. Williams. She could hardly speak at first, and then when she did talk, she talked so fast I couldn't understand most of it, and it was just the same when she tried to talk to me, said Mrs. Schofield nodding. I never did hear anyone in such a state before, continued Mrs. Williams. So furious, quite justly, of course, said Mrs. Schofield. Of course, and she said Penrod and Sam had enticed Roderick away from home. Usually he's not allowed to go outside the yard except with his tutor or a servant, and it told him to say that horrible creature was his aunt. How in the world do you suppose Sam and Penrod ever thought of such a thing as that, exclaimed Mrs. Schofield? It must have been made up just for their show. Della says there were just streams going in and out all day. Of course, it wouldn't have happened, but this was the day Margaret and I spend in the country every month with Aunt Sarah, and I didn't dream. She said one thing I thought rather tactless, interrupted Mrs. Williams. Of course, we must allow for her being dreadfully excited and wrought up, but I do think it wasn't quite delicate in her, and she's usually the very soul of delicacy. She said that Roderick had never been allowed to associate with common boys. Meaning Sam and Penrod, said Mrs. Schofield. Yes, she said that to me, too. She said the most awful thing about it, Mrs. Williams went on. Was that though she's going to prosecute the papers, many people would always believe the story, and yes, I imagine they will, said Mrs. Schofield musingly. Of course, you and I, and everybody who really knows the bits and mags worth families, understands the perfect absurdity of it. But I suppose there are ever so many who will believe it, no matter what the bits and mags will say. Hundreds and hundreds, said Mrs. Williams. I'm afraid it will be a great come down for them. I'm afraid so, said Mrs. Schofield gently. A very great one, yes, a very, very great one. Well, observed Mrs. Williams after a thoughtful pause, there's only one thing to be done, and I suppose it'd better be done right away. She glanced toward the two gentlemen. Certainly, Mr. Schofield agreed. But where are they? Have you looked in the stable? asked his wife. I searched it, and they probably started for the far west. Did you look in the sawdust box? No, I didn't. Then that's where they are. Thus, in the early twilight, the now historic stable was approached by two fathers charged to do the only thing to be done. They entered the storeroom. Penrod, said Mr. Schofield. Sam, said Mr. Williams. Nothing disturbed the twilight hush. But, by means of a ladder brought from the carriage house, Mr. Schofield mounted the top of the sawdust box. He looked within and discerned the dim outlines of three quiet figures, the third being that of a small dog. The two boys rose upon command, descended the ladder after Mr. Schofield bringing Duke with them, and stood before the authors of their being, who bent upon them sinister and threatening brows. With hanging heads and despondent countenances, each delornamented with a moustache and an imperial, Penrod and Sam awaited sentence. This is a boy's lot. Anything he does, anything whatever, may afterward turn out to have been a crime. He never knows, and punishment and clemency are alike inexplicable. Mr. Williams took his son by the ear. You march home, he commanded. Sam marched, not looking back, and his father followed the small figure implacably. You going to whip me? Quavered Penrod alone with justice. A washer face at that hydrant, said his father sternly. About fifteen minutes later, Penrod, hurriedly entering the corner drugstore two blocks distant, was astonished to perceive a familiar form at the soda counter. Yay, Penrod, said Sam Williams. Want some soda? Come on, he didn't lick me. He didn't do anything to me at all. He gave me a quarter. So'd mine, said Penrod. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 of Penrod. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Birchard April 2009. Penrod by Booth Tarkington. Chapter 18. Music. Boyhood is the longest time in life for a boy. The last term of the school year is made of decades, not of weeks, and living through them is like waiting for the millennium. But they do pass somehow, and at last there came a day when Penrod was one of a group that capered out from the gravel yard of Ward School, number seventh, caroling a leave taking of the institution of their instructress, and not even forgetting Mr. Caps, the janitor. Goodbye, teacher. Goodbye, school. Goodbye, Capsie. Dern old fool. Penrod sang the loudest. For every boy, there is an age when he finds his voice. Penrod's had not changed, but he had found it. Inevitably, that thing had come upon his family and the neighbors, and his father, a somewhat disceptic man, quoted frequently the expressive words of the Lady of Shalat, but there were others whose sufferings were his poignant. Vacation time warmed the young of the world to pleasant languor, and a morning came that was like a brightly colored picture in a child's fairy story. Miss Margaret Schofield, reclining in a hammock upon the front porch, was beautiful in the eyes of a newly made senior, well-favored and in fair raiment beside her. A guitar rested lightly upon his knee, and he was trying to play, a matter of some difficulty, as the floor of the porch also seemed inclined to be musical. From directly under his feet came a voice of song, shrill, loud, incredibly piercing and incredibly flat, dwelling upon each syllable with incomprehensible reluctance to leave it. I have lands unearthly powered, I'd give all for an hour, while sitting at my dear old mother's knee. So remember whilst you're young, Miss Schofield stamped heartily upon the musical floor. It's Penrod, she explained. The lattice at the end of the porch is loose, and he crawls under and comes out all bugs. He's been having a dreadful singing fit lately, running away to picture shows in Vaudeville, I suppose. Mr. Robert Williams looked upon her yearningly. He touched a thrilling chord on his guitar and leaned nearer. But you said you have missed me, he began. I, the voice of Penrod drowned all other sounds. So remember whilst you're young, that the days to you will come when you're sold, and only in the way. Do not scoff at them be, because Penrod, Miss Schofield stamped again. You did say you'd missed me, said Mr. Robert Williams, seizing hurriedly upon the silence. Didn't you say a livelier tune rose upward? Oh, you talk about your fascinating beauties, of your dammozills, your bells. But the little dame I met while in the city, she's par excellence, the queen of all the swells. She's sweeter, far Margaret rose and jumped up and down repeatedly in a well calculated area. Whereupon the voice of Penrod cried chokedly, quit that! And there were subterranean coffings and sneezing. You want to choke a person to death? He inquired severely, appearing at the end of the porch, a cobweb upon his brow, and continuing, he put into practice a newly acquired phrase. You better learn to be more considerate of other people's comfort. Slowly and grievantly he went through, passed to the sunny side of the house, reclined in the warm grass beside his wistful duke and presently sang again. She's sweeter, far than the flower I named her after, and the memory of her smile, it haunts me yet. While in after years the moon is softly beaming, and at eve I smell the smell of mignonette, I will recall that Penrod! Mr. Schofield appeared at an open window, a book in his hand. Stop it! he commanded. Can't I stay home with a headache one morning from the office without having to listen to? I never did hear such squawking! He retired from the window, having too impulsively called upon his maker. Penrod shocked and injured, entered the house, but presently his voice was again audible as far as the front porch. He was holding converse with his mother, somewhere in the interior. Well, what of it? Sam Williams told me his mother said if Bob ever did think of getting married to Margaret, his mother said she'd like to know what in the name of goodness they expect to bang. Margaret thought it better to close the front door. The next minute Penrod opened it. I suppose you want the whole family to get a sunstroke, he said reprovingly, keeping every breath of air out of the house on a day like this, and he sat down implacably in the doorway. The serious poetry of all languages has omitted the little brother, and yet he is one of the great trials of love. The immemorial burden of courtship. Tragedy should have found place for him, but he has been left to the half-hazard vignetist of Grubstreet. He is the grave and real menace of lovers. His head is sacred and terrible. His power illimitable. There is one way, only one, to deal with him. But Robert Williams, having a brother of Penrod's age, understood that way. Robert had one dollar in the world. He gave it to Penrod immediately. In Slave Forever, the new Rockefeller rose and went forth upon the highway, an overflowing heart bursting the floodgates of song. In her eyes, the light of love was softly gleaming. So sweetly, so neatly on the banks, the moon's soft light was brightly streaming. Words of love I then spoke to her. She was the purest of the pure. Little sweetheart, do not sigh, do not weep and do not cry. I will build a little cottage just for you and I. In fairness, it must be called to mind that boys older than Penrod have these wellings of pent melody. A wife can never tell when she is to undergo a musical mourning, and even the golden wedding brings her no security. A man of ninety is liable to bust loose in song any time. Invalids murmured pitifully as Penrod came within hearing, and people trying to think cursed the day that they were born. When he went shrilling by, his hands in his pockets, his shining faiths uplifted to the sky of June. He passed down the street, singing his way into the heart's deepest hatred of all who heard him. One evening I was strolling amidst the city of the dead. I viewed where all around me the peaceful graves was spread, but that which touched me mostly, he had reached his journey's end, a junk dealer's shop wherein lay the long desired treasure of his soul, an accordion which might have possessed a high quality of interest for an antiquarian, being unquestionably a ruin, beautiful in decay, and quite beyond the sacrilegious reach of the restorer. But it was still able to disgorge sounds, loud, strange, compelling sounds, which could be heard for a remarkable distance in all directions, and it had one rich calf-like tone that had gone to Penrod's heart. He obtained the instrument for twenty-two cents, a price long since agreed upon with the junk dealer, who falsely claimed a loss of profit, shylock that he was. He had found the wreck in an alley. With this purchase suspended from his shoulder by a faded green cord, Penrod set out in a somewhat homeward direction, but not by the route he had just traveled, though his motive for the change was not humanitarian. It was his desire to display himself thus troubadouring to the gaze of Marjorie Jones. Harolding is advanced by continuous experiments in the music of the future. He pranced upon his bliesome way, the faithful duke at his heels. It was easier for Duke than it would have been for a younger dog, because with advancing age he had begun to grow a little deaf. Turning the corner nearest to the glamoured mansion of the Joneses, the boy young Lear came suddenly face-to-face with Marjorie, and in the delicious surprise of the encounter ceased to play, his hands in agitation falling from the instrument. Bareheaded, the sunshine glorious upon her amber curls, Marjorie was strolling hand-in-hand with her baby brother Mitchell, four years old. She wore pink that day, unforgettable pink, with a broad black patent leather bell, shimmering reflections dancing upon its surface. How beautiful she was! How sacred the sweet little baby brother, whose privilege it was to cling to that small hand, delicately powdered with freckles! Hello, Marjorie! said Penrod, affecting carelessness. Hello! said Marjorie with unexpected cordiality. She bent over her baby brother with motherly affectations. Say howdy to the genty mum's Mitchy Mitch, she urged sweetly, turning him to face Penrod. WOTE! said Mitchy Mitch, and to emphasize his refusal, kicked the genty mum's on the shin. Penrod's feelings underwent instant change, and in the sole occupation of disliking Mitchy Mitch, he wasted precious seconds which might have been in better employed and philosophic consideration of the startling example just afforded of how a given law operates throughout the universe in precisely the same manner perpetually. Mr. Robert Williams would have understood this easily. Oh, oh! Marjorie cried, and put Mitchy Mitch behind her with too much sweetness. Maurice Levy's gone to Atlantic City with his mama, she remarked conversationally, as if the kicking incident were quite close. That's nothing, returned Penrod, keeping his eye uneasily upon Mitchy Mitch. I know plenty people been better places than that. Chicago and everywhere! There was unconscious ingratitude in his low rating of Atlantic City, for it was largely due to the attractions of that resort he owed Ms. Jones' present attitude of friendliness. Of course too, she was curious about the accordion. It would be dastardly to hint that she had noticed a paper bag which bulged the pocket of Penrod's coat, and yet this bag was undeniably conspicuous, and children are very light grown people sometimes. Penrod brought forth the bag, purchased on his way at a drug store, and till this moment, unopened, which expresses in a word the depth of his sentiment for Marjorie. It contained an abundant fifteen cents worth of lemon drops, jawbreakers, liquor sticks, cinnamon drops, and shop-worn chocolate creams. Take all you want, he said with off-hand generosity. Why, Penrod Scofield, exclaimed the holy thawed damsel, you nice boy. Oh, that's nothing, he returned eerily. I got a good deal of money nowadays. Where from? Oh, just around. With a costous gesture, he offered a jawbreaker to Mitchy Mitch, who snatched it indignantly and said about its absorption without delay. Can you play on that? asked Marjorie with some difficulty, her cheeks being rather too hilly for conversation. Want to hear me? She nodded, her eyes sweet with anticipation. This was what he had come for. He threw back his head, lifted his eyes dreamily, as he had seen real musicians lift theirs, and distended the accordion, preparing to produce the wonderful calf-like noise, which was the instrument's great charm. But the distention evoked a long wail, which was at once drowned in another one. Shrieked Mitchy Mitch and the accordion together, Mitchy Mitch, to emphasize his disapproval of the accordion, opening his mouth still wider, lost therefrom the jawbreaker, which rolled in the dust. Weeping, he stooped to retrieve it, and Marjorie, to prevent him, hastily set her foot upon it. Penrod offered another jawbreaker, but Mitchy Mitch struck it from his hand, desiring the former which had convinced him of its sweetness. Marjorie moved inadvertently, whereupon Mitchy Mitch pounced upon the remains of his jawbreaker, and restored them with accretions to his mouth. His sister, uttering a cry of horror, sprang to the rescue assisted by Penrod, whom she prevailed upon to hold Mitchy Mitch's mouth open while she excavated. This operation being completed, and Penrod's right thumb severely bitten, Mitchy Mitch closed his eyes tightly, stamped, squealed, bellowed, rung his hands, and then unexpectedly kicked Penrod again. Penrod put a hand in his pocket, and drew forth a copper two cent piece, large, round, and fairly bright. He gave it to Mitchy Mitch. Mitchy Mitch immediately stopped crying, and gazed upon his benefactor with the eyes of a dog. This world thereafter did Penrod, with complete approval from Mitchy Mitch, play the accordion for his lady to his heart's content, and hers. Never had he so won upon her, never had she let him feel so close to her before. They strolled up and down upon the sidewalk, eating, one thought between them, and soon she had learned to play the accordion almost as well as he. So passed a happy hour, which the good King Rene of Anjou would have envied them, while Mitchy Mitch made friends with Duke, romped about his sister and her swain, and clung to the hand of the latter at intervals with fondest affection and trust. The noon whistles failed to disturb this little arcady. Only the sound of Mrs. Jones' voice, for the third time summoning Marjorie and Mitchy Mitch to lunch, sent Penrod on his way. I could come back this afternoon, I guess, he said in party. I'm not going to be here. I'm going to Baby Rensdale's party. Penrod looked blank, as she intended he should. Having thus satisfied herself, she added, there aren't going to be any boys there. He was instantly radiant again. But Marjorie, hum, do you wish I was going to be there? She looked shy and turned away her head. Marjorie Jones! This was a voice from home. How many more times shall I have to call you? Marjorie moved away, her face still hidden from Penrod. Do you? he urged. At the gate she turned quickly toward him, set over her shoulder, all in a breath. Yes, come again tomorrow morning and I'll be on the corner. Bring your cordian! And she ran into the house, Mitchy Mitch waving a loving hand to the boy on the sidewalk, until the front door closed. End of Chapter 18. Chapter 19 of Penrod. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Jonathan Burchard, April 2009. Penrod by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 19, The Inner Boy. Penrod went home in splendor, pretending that he and Duke were a long procession, and he made enough noise to render the irregular part of the illusion perfect. His own family were already at the lunch table when he arrived, and the parade halted only at the door of the dining room. Oh, something shouted Mr. Scofield, clasping his billiest brow with both hands. Stop that noise! Isn't it awful enough for you to sing? Sit down, not with that thing on. Take that green rope off your shoulder. Now take that thing out of the dining room and throw it in the ash can. Where did you get it? Where did I get what, Papa? Asked Penrod meekly, depositing the accordion in the hall just outside the dining room door. That third hand concertina. It's accordion, said Penrod, taking his place at the table and noticing that both Margaret and Mr. Robert Williams, who happened to be a guest, were growing red. I don't care what you call it, said Mr. Scofield irritably. I want to know where you got it. Penrod's eyes met Margaret's. Hers had a strained expression. She very slightly shook her head. Penrod sent Mr. Williams a grateful look, and might have been startled if he could have seen himself in a mirror at the moment. For he regarded Mitchy Mitch with concealed but vigorous aversion, and the resemblance would have horrified him. A man gave it to me, he answered gently, and was rewarded by the visibly regained ease of his patron's manner, while Margaret leaned back in her chair and looked at her brother with real devotion. I should think he'd have been glad to, said Mr. Scofield. Who was he, sir? In spite of the candy which he had consumed in company with Marjorie and Mitchy Mitch, Penrod had begun to eat lobster croquettes earnestly. Who was he? What do you mean, Papa? The man that gave you that ghastly thing. Yes, sir. A man gave it to me. I say, who was he? shouted Mr. Scofield. Well, I was just walking along, and the man came up to me. It was right down in front of Colgate's, where most of the paints rubbed off the fence. Penrod! The father used his most dangerous tone. Sir? Who was the man that gave you the concertina? I don't know. I was walking along. You never saw him before. No, sir. I was just walking. That will do, said Mr. Scofield, rising. I suppose every family has its secret enemies, and this was one of ours. I must ask to be excused. With that, he went out crossily, stopping in the hall a moment before passing beyond hearing. And after lunch, Penrod sought in vain for his accordion. He even searched the library where his father sat reading. Though upon inquiring, Penrod explained that he was looking for a misplaced schoolbook. He thought he ought to study a little every day, he said, even during vacation time. Much pleased, Mr. Scofield rose and joined the search, finding the missing work on mathematics with singular ease, which cost him precisely the price of the book the following September. Penrod departed to study in the backyard. There, after a cautious survey of the neighborhood, he managed to dislodge the iron cover of the cistern, and drop the arithmetic within. A fine splash rewarded his listening ear. Thus assured that when he looked for that book again, no one would find it for him, he replaced the cover, and betook himself pensively to the highway, discouraging Duke from following by repeated volleys of stones, some imaginary, and others all too real. Distant strains of brazen horns and the throbbing of drums were borne to him upon the kind breeze, reminding him that the world was made for joy, and that the Barzee and Potter dog and pony show was exhibiting in a ball-u not far away. So thither he bent his steps, the plentiful funds in his pocket burning hot holes all the way. He had paid twenty-two cents for the accordion, and fifteen for candy. He had bought the mercenary heart of Michimich for two. It certainly follows that there remained to him of his dollar sixty-one cents, a fair fortune, and most unusual. Arrived upon the populous and festive scene of the dog and pony show, he first turned his attention to the brightly decorated booths which surrounded the tent. The cries of the peanut vendors, of the popcorn men, of the toy balloon sellers, the stirring music of the band playing before the performance to attract a crowd, the shouting of excited children, and the barking of the dogs within the tent, all sounded exhilaratingly in penrod's ears and set his blood a tingle. Nevertheless, he did not squander his money or fling it to the winds in one grand splurge. Instead, he began cautiously with the purchase of an extraordinary large pickle, which he obtained from an aged negrus for his odd scent, too obvious a bargain to be missed. At an adjacent stand, he bought a glass of raspberry lemonade, so alleged, and sipped it as he ate the pickle. He left nothing of either. Next, he entered a small restaurant tent, and for a modest nickel was supplied with a fork and a box of sardines previously opened. It is true, but more than half full. He consumed the sardines utterly, but left the tin box and the fork, after which he indulged in an inexpensive half pint of lukewarm cider at one of the open booths. Mug in hand, a gentle glow radiating toward his surface from various centers of activity deep inside him, he paused for breath, and the cool, sweet cadences of the watermelon man fell delectably upon his ear. Ice cold watermelon! Ice cold watermelon! The biggest slice of ice cold riped ice cold rich and rare, the biggest slice of ice cold watermelon ever cut by the hand of man. Buy our ice cold watermelon! Penrod, having drained the last drop of cider, complied with the watermelon man's luscious entreaty, and received a round slice of the fruit, magnificent in circumference in something over an inch in thickness. Leaving only the really dangerous part of the rind behind him, he wandered away from the vicinity of the watermelon man and supplied himself with a bag of peanuts, which, with the expenditure of a dime for admission, left a quarter still warm in his pocket. However, he managed to break the coin at a stand inside the tent, where a large oblong paper box of popcorn was handed him with 20 cents change. The box was too large to go into his pocket, but having seated himself among some wistful Pollock children, he placed it in his lap and devoured the contents at leisure during the performance. The popcorn was heavily larded with partially boiled molasses, and Penrod's sandwiched mouthfuls of peanuts with gobs of this mass until the peanuts were all gone. After that, he ate with less civility, a sense almost of satiety beginning to manifest itself to him, and it was not until the close of the performance that he disposed of the last morsel. He descended a little heavily to the outflowing crowd in the arena, and bought a catarwelling toy balloon, but showed no great enthusiasm in manipulating it. Near the exit, as he came out, was a hot waffle stand, which he had overlooked, and a sense of duty obliged him to consume the three waffles, thickly powdered with sugar, which the waffle man cooked for him upon command. They left a hoddish taste in his mouth. They had not been quite up to his anticipation, indeed, and it was with a sense of relief that he turned to the hokey pokey cart, which stood close at hand, laden with square slabs of Neapolitan ice cream wrapped in paper. He thought the ice cream would be cooling, but somehow it fell short of a desired effect, and left a peculiar savor in his throat. He walked away too languid to blow his balloon, and passed a fresh taffy booth with strange indifference. A bare-armed man was manipulating the taffy over a hook, pulling a great white mass to the desired stage of candying, but Penrod did not pause to watch the operation. In fact, he averted his eyes, which were slightly glazed, in passing. He did not analyze his motives. Simply, he was conscious that he preferred not to look at the massive taffy. For some reason, he put a considerable distance between himself and the taffy stand, but before long halted in the presence of a red-faced man who flourished a long fork over his small cookie-gaparatus and shouted jovial-y, Winnie's, here's your hot winnie's, hot winnie-wurst, food for the overworked brain, nourishing for the weak stomach, entertaining for the tired businessman. Here's your hot winnie's, three, four, a nickel, a half a dime, the 20th pot of a dollar. This, above all nectar and ambrosia, was the favorite dish of Penrod's go-field. Nothing inside him now craved it, on the contrary, but memory is the great hypnotist. His mind argued against his inwards that opportunity knocked at his door. Winnie-wurst was rigidly forbidden by the home authorities. Besides, there was a last nickel in his pocket, and nature protested against its survival. Also, the red-faced man had himself proclaimed his wares nourishing for the weak stomach. Penrod placed the nickel in the red hand of the red-faced man. He ate two of the three greasy cigar-like shapes cordially pressed upon him in return. The first bite convinced him that he had made a mistake. These winnie's seemed of a very inferior flavor, almost unpleasant, in fact, but he felt obliged to conceal his poor opinion of them for fear of offending the red-faced man. He ate without haste or eagerness, so slowly indeed, that he began to think the red-faced man might dislike him as a deterrent of trade. Perhaps Penrod's mind was not working well, for he failed to remember that no law compelled him to remain under the eye of the red-faced man, but the virulent repulsion excited by his attempt to take a bite of the third sausage inspired him with at least an excuse for postponement. Mighty good, he murmured feebly, placing the sausage in the pocket of his jacket with a shaking hand. Guess I'll save this one to eat at home after dinner. He moved sluggishly away, wishing he had not thought of dinner. A sideshow, undiscovered until now, failed to arouse his interest, not even exciting a wish that he had known of its existence when he had money. For a time he stared without attraction, the weather-worn colors conveying no meaning to comprehension at a huge canvas poster depicting the chief, his torpid eye. Then, little by little, the poster became more vivid to his consciousness. There was a greenish-tinted person in the tent, it seemed, who thrived upon a reptilian diet. Suddenly, Penrod decided that it was time to go home. End of chapter 19 Chapter 20 of Penrod This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Jonathan Burchard, April 2009. Penrod by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 20, Brothers of Angels Indeed, Doctor, said Mrs. Schofield, with agitation and profound conviction, just after eight o'clock that evening, I shall always believe in mustard plasters, mustard plasters, and hot water bags. If it hadn't been for them, I don't believe he'd have lived till you got here. I do not. Margaret, called Mr. Schofield from the open door of a bedroom, Margaret, where did you put that aromatic ammonia? Where's Margaret? But he had to find the aromatic spirits of ammonia himself, for Margaret was not in the house. She stood in the shadow beneath a maple tree, near the street corner, a guitar case in her hand, and she scanned with anxiety a briskly approaching figure. The arc light, swinging above, revealed this figure as that of him she awaited. He was passing toward the gate without seeing her, when she arrested him with a fateful whisper. Mr. Robert Williams swung hastily about. Why, Margaret? Here, take your guitar, she whispered hurriedly. I was afraid if Father happened to find it, he'd break it all to pieces. What for? asked the startled Robert. Because I'm sure he knows it's yours. But what? Oh, Bob, she moaned. I was waiting here to tell you, I was so afraid you'd try to come in. Try, exclaimed the unfortunate young man, quite dumbfounded, try to come. Yes, before I warned you, I've been waiting here to tell you, Bob, you mustn't come near the house. If I were you, I'd stay away from even this neighborhood, far away. For a while, I don't think it would actually be safe for Margaret. Will you please, it's all on account of that dollar you gave Penrod this morning, she walled. First, he bought that horrible concertina that made Papa so furious. But Penrod didn't tell that I, oh wait, she cried lamentedly. Listen, he didn't tell at lunch, but he got home about dinner time in the most, well, I've seen pale people before, but nothing like Penrod. Nobody could imagine it, not unless they'd seen him, and he'd looked so strange and kept making such unnatural faces. And at first, all he would say was that he'd eaten a little piece of apple and thought it must have had some microbes on it. But he got sicker and sicker and we put him to bed. And then we all thought he was going to die, and of course no little piece of apple would have, well, and he kept getting worse, and then he said he'd had a dollar. He said he'd spent it for the concertina and watermelon and chocolate creams and liquor sticks and lemon drops and peanuts and jawbreakers and sardines and raspberry lemonade and pickles and popcorn and ice cream and cider and sausage. There was sausage in his pocket and mama says his jacket is ruined and cinnamon drops and waffles and he ate four or five lobster croquettes at lunch and Papa said, who gave you that dollar? Well, he didn't say who. He said something horrible, Bob, and Penrod thought he was going to die, and he said you gave it to him, and oh, it was just pitiful to hear the poor child, Bob, because he thought he was dying, you see, and he blamed you for the whole thing. He said if you'd only let him alone and not given it to him, he'd have grown up to be a good man, and now he couldn't. I never heard anything so heart-rending. He was so weak, he could hardly whisper, but he kept trying to talk, telling us over and over it was all your fault. In the darkness, Mr. Williams' facial expression could not be seen, but his voice sounded hopeful. Is he still in a great deal of pain? They say the crisis has passed, said Margaret, but the doctor's still up there. He said it was the cutest case of indigestion he had ever treated in the whole course of his professional practice. Of course, I didn't know what he'd do with the dollar, said Robert. She did not reply. He began plaintively, Margaret, you don't. I've never seen Papa and Mama so upset about anything, she said rather primly. You mean they're upset about me? We are all very much upset, returned Margaret. Much starch in her tone as she remembered not only Penrod's sufferings, but a duty she had vowed herself to perform. Margaret, you don't. Robert, she said firmly, and also with a rhetorical complexity which breeds a suspicion of pre-rehearsal. Robert, for the present I can only look at it in one way. When you gave that money to Penrod, you put into the hands of an unthinking little child, a weapon which might be and indeed was the means of his undoing. Boys are not respond, but you saw me give him the dollar, and you didn't. Robert, she checked in with increasing severity. I am only a woman and not accustomed to thinking of everything out on the spur of the moment, but I cannot change my mind. Not now, at least. And you think I'd better not come in tonight? Tonight, she gasped. Not for weeks. Papa would. But Margaret, he urged plaintively, how can you blame me for— I have not used the word blame, she interrupted, but I must insist that for your carelessness to wreak such havoc cannot fail to lessen my confidence in your powers of judgment. I cannot change my convictions in this manner. Not tonight, and I cannot remain here another instant. The poor child may need me. Robert, good night. With chilled dignity she withdrew, entered the house and returned to the sick room, leaving the young man in outer darkness to brood upon his crime and upon Penrod. That sincere invalid became convalescent upon the third day, and a week elapsed then before he found an opportunity to leave the house unaccompanied, saved by Duke. But at last he set forth and approached the Jones neighborhood in high spirits, pleasantly conscious of his pallor, hollow cheeks, and other perquisites of illness provocative of interest. One thought troubled him a little because it gave him a sense of inferiority to arrival. He believed, against his will, that Maurice Levy could have successfully eaten chocolate creams, licoristics, lemon drops, jawbreakers, peanuts, waffles, lobster, croquettes, sardines, cinnamon drops, watermelon, pickles, popcorn, ice cream, and sausage with raspberry lemonade and cider. Penrod had admitted to himself that Maurice could do it and afterwards attend to business or pleasure without the slightest discomfort. And this was probably no more than a fair estimate of one of the great constitutions of all time. As a digester, Maurice Levy would have disappointed a Borgia. Fortunately, Maurice was still at Atlantic City, and now the convalescent's heart leaped. In the distance he saw Marjorie coming, in pink again, with a ravishing little parasol over her head. And alone, no Mitchy Mitch was to mar this meeting, Penrod increased the feebleness of his steps, now and then leaning upon the fence as if for support. How do you do, Marjorie? He said in his best sick room voice as she came near. To his pained amazement she proceeded on her way, her nose at a celebrated elevation, and I see nose. She cut him dead. He threw his invalids airs to the wind and hastened after her. Marjorie, he pleaded, what's the matter? Are you mad? Honest, that day you said to come back next morning and you'd be on the corner, I was sick. Honest, I was awful sick, Marjorie. I had to have the doctor. Doctor? She rolled upon him, her lovely eyes blazing. I guess we've had to have the doctor enough at our house, thanks to you, Mr. Penrod Scofield. Papa says you haven't gotten near sense enough to come in out of the rain after what you did to poor little Mitchy Mitch. What? Yes, and he's sick in bed yet, Marjorie went on with animated fury, and Papa says if he ever catches you in this part of town, what did I do to Mitchy Mitch, gasped Penrod. You know well enough what you did to Mitchy Mitch, she cried. You gave him that great big nasty two cent piece. Well, what of it? Mitchy Mitch swallowed it. What? And Papa says if he ever just lays eyes on you once in this neighborhood, but Penrod had started for home. In his embittered heart there was increasing a critical disapproval of the creator's methods. When he made pretty girls, thought Penrod, why couldn't he have left out their little brothers? End of Chapter 20. For several days after this, Penrod thought of growing up to be a monk, and engaged in good works so far as to carry some kittens that otherwise would have drowned, and a pair of Margaret's outworn dancing slippers to a poor, ungrateful old man sojourning in a shed up the alley. And although Mr. Robert Williams, after a very short interval, began to leave his guitar on the front porch again exactly as if he thought nothing had happened, Penrod, with his younger vision of a father's mood, remade coldly distant from the Jones neighborhood. With his own family his manner was gentle, proud, and sad, but not for long enough to frighten them. The change came with mystifying abruptness at the end of the week. It was Duke who brought it about. Duke could shake some much bigger dog out of the Schofield's yard, and far down the street. This might be thought to indicate unusual valor on the part of Duke and cowardice on that of the bigger dogs whom he undoubtedly put to route. On the contrary, all such flights were founded in mere superstition, for dogs are even more superstitious than boys and colored people, and the most firmly established of all dog superstitions is that any dog, be he the smallest and feeblest in the world, can whip any trespasser whatsoever. A rat terrier believes that on his home grounds he can whip an elephant. It follows, of course, that a big dog away from his own home will run from a little dog in the little dog's neighborhood. Otherwise the big dog must face a charge of inconsistency, and dogs are as consistent as they are superstitious. A dog believes in war, but he is convinced that there are times when it is moral to run, and the thoughtful physiognomist, seeing a big dog fleeing out of a little dog's yard, must observe that the expression of the big dog's face is more conscientious than alarmed. It is the expression of a person performing a duty to himself. Penrod understood these matters perfectly. He knew that the gaunt brown hound Duke chased up the alley had fled only out of deference to a custom, yet Penrod could not refrain from bragging of Duke to the hound's owner, a fat-faced stranger of 12 or 13 who had wandered into the neighborhood. You better keep that old yellow dog of yours back, said Penrod ominously as he climbed the fence. You better catch him and hold him till I get mine inside the yard again. Duke's chewed up some pretty bad bulldogs around here. The fat-faced boy gave Penrod a fishy stare. You ought to learn him not to do that, he said. It'll make him sick. What will? The stranger laughed raspingly and gazed up the alley where the hound, having come to a halt, now coolly sat down and with an expression of roguish benevolence, patronizingly watched the tempered fury of Duke, whose assaults and barkings were becoming perfunctory. What'll make Duke sick, Penrod demanded. Eatin' dead bulldogs, people leave around here. This was not improvisation but formula, adapted from other occasions to the present encounter. Nevertheless, it was new to Penrod, and he was so taken with it that resentment lost itself in admiration. Hastily, committing the gem to memory for use upon a dog-owning friend, he inquired in a sociable tone. But what's your dog's name? Dan, you better call your old pup because Dan eats live dogs. Dan's actions poorly supported his master's assertion for, upon Duke's ceasing to bark, Dan rose and showed the most courteous interest in making the little old dog's acquaintance. Dan had a great deal of manner, and it became plain that Duke was impressed favorably in spite of him former prejudice, so that presently the two trodded amicably back to their masters, and sat down with the harmonious but indifferent air of having known each other intimately for years. They were received without comment, though both boys looked at them reflectively for a time. It was Penrod who spoke first. What number you go to? In an oral lesson in English, Penrod had been instructed to put this question in another form. May I ask which of our public schools you attend? May What number do I go to? said the stranger contemptuously. I don't go to no number in vacation. Well, I mean when it ain't. Third, returned the fat face boy. I got him all scared in that school. What of? Innocently asked Penrod to whom the third, in a distant part of town, was undiscovered country. What of? I guess you'd soon see what of if you was ever in that school about one day. You'd be lucky if you got out alive. Are the teachers mean? The other boyfriend with bitter scorn. Teachers, teachers don't order me around. I can tell you, they're mighty careful how they try to run over Roop Collins. Who's Roop Collins? Who is he? Echoed the fat face boy incredulously. Say, ain't you got any sense? What? Say, wouldn't you be just as happy if you had some sense? Yes, Penrod's answer, like the look he lifted to the impressive stranger, was meek and placative. Roop Collins is the principal at your school, guess? The other yelled with jeering laughter and mocked Penrod's manner in voice. Roop Collins is the principal at your school, I guess? He laughed harshly again, and then suddenly showed truculence. Say, boy, why don't you learn enough to go in the house when it rains? What's the matter of you anyhow? Well, urged Penrod timidly, nobody ever told me who Roop Collins is. I got a right to think he's the principal, haven't I? The fat face boy shook his head disgustedly. Honest, you make me sick. Penrod's expression became one of despair. Well, who is he? he cried. Who is he? mocked the other, with a scorn that withered. Who is he? Me! Oh, Penrod was humiliated but relieved. He felt that he had proved himself criminally ignorant, yet a peril seemed to have passed. Roop Collins is your name then, I guess? I kind of thought it was all the time. The fat face boy still appeared embittered, burlesking his speech in a hateful falsetto. Roop Collins is your name then, I guess? Oh, you kind of thought it was all the time, did you? Suddenly, concentrating his brow into a histrionic scowl, he thrust his face within an inch of Penrod's. Yes, sonny, Roop Collins is my name, and you better look out what you say when he's around or you'll get in big trouble. You understand that, boy? Penrod was cowed but fascinated. He felt that there was something dangerous and dashing about this newcomer. Yes, he said feebly, drawing back, my name's Penrod Schofield. Then I reckon your father and mother ain't got good sense, said Mr. Collins promptly, this also being formula. Why? Because if they had, they'd have given you a good name. And the agreeable youth instantly rewarded himself for the wit with another yell of rasping laughter, after which he pointed suddenly at Penrod's right hand. Where'd you get that ward on your finger? He demanded severely. Which finger? asked the mystified Penrod, extending his hand. The middle one. Where? There! exclaimed Roop Collins, seizing and invigorously twisting the wartless finger naively offered for his inspection. Quit! shouted Penrod and Agony. Quit! Say your prayers, commanded Roop, and continued to twist the luckless finger until Penrod writhed to his knees. Ow! The victim, released, looked grievously upon the still-painful finger. At this, Roop's scornful expression altered to one of contrition. Well, I declare, he exclaimed remorsefully. I didn't suppose it would hurt. Turnabouts fair play, so now you do that to me. He extended the middle finger of his left hand, and Penrod promptly seized it, but he did not twist it, for he was instantly swung around with his back to his amiable new acquaintance. Roop's right hand operated upon the back of Penrod's slender neck. Roop's knee tortured the small of Penrod's back. Ow! Penrod bent far forward involuntarily and went to his knees again. Lick dirt! commanded Roop, forcing the captive face to the sidewalk. And the suffering Penrod completed this ceremony. Mr. Collins' event satisfaction by means of his horse laughed. You'd last just about one day up at the third, he said. You'd come running home yelling, Mama! Mama! Before recess was over. No, I wouldn't. Penrod protested rather weakly, dusting his knees. You would, too. No, I would. Looky here, said the fat-faced boy, darkly. What you mean, counter-dicking me? He advanced a step, and Penrod hastily qualified his contradiction. I mean, I don't think I would. All right, you better look out! Roop moved closer and unexpectedly grasped the back of Penrod's neck again. Say, I would run home yelling, Mama! Ow! I would run home yelling, Mama! There, said Roop, giving the helpless nape a final squeeze. That's the way we do up at the third. Penrod rubbed his neck and asked meekly. Can you do that to any boy up at the third? See here now, said Roop, in the tone of one goaded beyond all endurance. You say if I can. You better say it quick, or I knew you could. Penrod interposed hastily with the pathetic semblance of a laugh. I only said that in fun. In fun, repeated Roop stormily, you better look out how you- Well, I said I wasn't in earnest. Penrod retreated a few steps. I knew you could all the time. I expect I could do it to some of the boys up at the third myself. Couldn't I? No, you couldn't. Well, there must be some boy up there that I could. No, they ain't. You better. I expect not, then, said Penrod quickly. You better expect not. Didn't I tell you once you'd never get back alive if you ever tried to come up around the third? You want me to show you how we do up there, boy? He began a slow and deadly advance, whereupon Penrod timidly offered a diversion. Say, Roop, I got a box of rats in our stable under a glass cover, so you can watch him jump around when you hammer on the box. Come on and look at him. All right, said the fat-faced boy, slightly mollified. We'll let Dan kill him. No, sir, I'm going to keep him. They're kind of pets. I've had him all summer. I got names for him, and looky here, boy. Did you hear me say we'll let Dan kill him? Yes, but I won't. Well, won't you? Roop became sinister immediately. It seems to me you're getting pretty fresh around here. Well, I don't want Mr. Collins once more brought into play the dreadful eye-to-eye scowl as practiced up at the third, and sometimes also by young leading men upon the stage. Frowning appallingly and thrusting forward his underlip, he placed his nose almost in contact with the nose of Penrod, whose eyes naturally became crossed. Dan kills the rats, see, hissed the fat-faced boy, maintaining the horrible juxtaposition. Oh, well, all right, said Penrod, swallowing. I don't want him much. And when the pose had been relaxed, he stared at his new friend for a moment, almost with reverence. Then he brightened. Come on, Roop! He cried enthusiastically as he climbed the fence. We'll give our dogs a little live meat, boy. End of Chapter 21.