 Chapter 22 of Penrod and Sam. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard, April 2009, Penrod and Sam by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 22, The Horn of Fame. Bet he won't come back, said Sam. Well, he might. Well, if he does, and he hasn't got any horn, I've got a right to call him, anything I want to, and he's got to stand it. And if he doesn't come back, Sam continued, as by the code. Then I got a right to call him, whatever I like, next time I catch him out. I expect he'll have some kind of old horn, maybe, said Penrod. No, the skeptical Sam insisted he won't. But Roddy did. Twenty minutes elapsed, and both the waiting boys decided that they were legally entitled to call him, whatever they thought fitting, when he burst in, puffing. And in his hands he bore a horn. It was a real one, and of a kind that neither Penrod nor Sam had ever seen before, though they failed to realize this, because its shape was instantly familiar to them. No horn could have been simpler. It consisted merely of one circular coil of brass with a mouthpiece at one end for the musician, and a wide flaring mouth of its own for the noise at the other. But it was obviously a second-hand horn, dense, slightly martyred here and there, and its surface was dull, rather greenish. There were no keys, and a badly faded green cord and tassel hung from the coil. Even so shabby a horn is this electrified Penrod. It was not a stupendous horn, but it was a horn, and when a boy has been sighing for the moon, a piece of green cheese will satisfy him, for he can play that it is the moon. Give me that horn, Penrod shouted as he dashed for it. Yay, Sam cried, and sought to rest it from him. Roddy joined the scuffle, trying to retain the horn, but Penrod managed to secure it. With one free hand he fended the others off, while he blew into the mouthpiece. Let me have it, Sam urged. You can't do anything with it. Let me take it, Penrod. No, said Roddy. Let me. My goodness. Ain't I got any right to blow my own horn? They pressed upon Penrod, who frantically fended and frantically blew. At last he remembered to compress his lips and force the air through the compression. A magnificent snort from the horn was his reward. He removed his lips from the mouthpiece and capered in pride. Ha! he cried. Hear that? I guess I can't play this good ol' horn, oh no. During his capers, Sam captured the horn, but Sam had not made the best of his opportunities as an observer of bands. He thrust the mouthpiece deep into his mouth, and blew until his expression became one of agony. No, no, Penrod exclaimed. You haven't got the secret of blowing a horn, Sam. What's the use of your keep and hold of it when you don't know any more about it than that? It ain't makin' a sound. You let me have that good ol' horn back, Sam. Haven't you got sense enough to see I know how to play? Laying hands upon it, he jerked it away from Sam, who was a little peaked over the failure of his own efforts. Especially as Penrod now produced a sonorous blad. Quite a long one. Sam became cross. My goodness! Roddy Bitt said peevishly. Ain't I ever going to get a turn at my own horn? Here, you've had two turns, Penrod, and even Sam Williams. Sam's petulance at once directed itself toward Roddy, partly because the latter's tactless use of the word even, and the two engaged in controversy, while Penrod was left free to continue the experiments which so enraptured him. Your own horn, Sam sneered. I bet it isn't yours. Anyway, you can't prove it's yours, and that gives me a right to call you any—you better not. It is too, mine. It's just the same as mine. No, sir, said Sam. I bet you got to take it back where you got it, and that's not anything like the same as yours, so I got a perfect right to call you whatever. I do not have to take it back where I got it either," Roddy cried, more and more irritated by his opponent's persistence in stating his rights in this matter. I bet they told you to bring it back, Sam said tauntingly. They didn't either. There wasn't anybody there. Yay! Then you got to get it back before they know it's gone. I don't either any such a thing. I heard my uncle Ethelbert say Sunday he didn't want it. He said he wished somebody'd take that horn off his hand so he could buy something else. That's just exactly what he said. I heard him tell my mother. He said, I guess I practically got to give it away if I'm ever going to get rid of it. Well, when my own uncle says he wants to give a horn away and he wishes he could get rid of it, I guess it's just the same as mine. Soon as I go and take it, isn't it? I'm going to keep it. Sam was shaken, but he had set out to demonstrate those rights of his and did not mean to yield them. Yes, you'll have a nice time, he said. Next time your uncle goes to play on that horn and can't find it, no, sir, I got a perfect right. My uncle don't play on it, Roddy shrieked. It's an all-war-out horn nobody wants, and it's mine, I tell you. I can blow on it or bust it or kick it out in the alley and leave it there if I want to. No, you can't. I can, too. No, you can't. You can't prove you can. And unless you prove it, I got a perf. Roddy stamped his foot. I can, too, he shrieked. You all turned jackass. I can, too. I can, can, can, can. Penrod suddenly stopped his intermittent production of Blats and intervened. I know how you can prove it, Roddy, he said briskly. There's one way anybody can prove something belongs to them, so that nobody'd have a right to call them what they wanted to. You can prove it's yours easy. How? Well, said Penrod, if you give it away. What you mean, asked Roddy frowning. Well, look here, Penrod said brightly. You can't give anything away that doesn't belong to you, can you? No. So then, the resourceful boy continued, for instance, if you give this all horn to me, that'd prove it was yours. And Sam'd have to say it was, and he wouldn't have any right to- Don't do it, said Roddy sourly. I don't want to give you that horn. What I want to give you anything at all for, Penrod sighed as if the task of reaching Roddy's mind with reason were too heavy for him. Well, if you don't want to prove it, and rather let us have the right to call you anything we want to, well, all right then, he said. You look out what you call me, Roddy cried only the more incensed, in spite of the pains Penrod was taking with him. I don't have to prove it, it's mine. What kind of proof is that? Sam Williams demanded severely. You got to prove it, and you can't do it. Roddy began a reply, but his agitation was so great that what he said had not attained coherency when Penrod again intervened. He had just remembered something important. Oh, I know Roddy, he exclaimed. If you sell it, that'd prove it was yours almost as good as giving it away. What'll you take for it? I don't want to sell it, said Roddy sourly. Yay, yay, yay! shouted the taunting Sam Williams, whose every word and sound had now become almost unbearable to master bits. Sam was usually so good-natured that the only explanation of his conduct must lie in the fact that Roddy constitutionally got on his nerves. He knows he can't prove it. He's a goner, and now we can begin calling him anything we can think of. I choose to call him one first, Penrod. Roddy, you're a-wait! shouted Penrod, for he really believed Roddy's claims to be both moral and legal. When an uncle who does not even play upon an old second-hand horn wishes to get rid of that horn and even complains of having it on his hands, it seems reasonable to consider that the horn becomes the property of a nephew who has gone to the trouble of carrying the undesired thing out of the house. Penrod determined to deal fairly. The difference between this horn and the one in the music store window seemed to him just about the difference between two and eighty-five. He drew forth the green bill from his pocket. Roddy, he said, I'll give you two dollars for that horn. Sam Williams' mouth fell open. He was silenced indeed, but for a moment the confused and badgered Roddy was incredulous. He had not dreamed that Penrod possessed such a sum. Let me take a look at that money, he said. If at first there had been in Roddy's mind a little doubt about his present rights of ownership, he had talked himself out of it. Also, his financial supplies for the month were cut off on account of the careless dog. Finally, he thought that the horn was worth about fifty cents. I'll do it, Penrod, he said with decision. Thereupon, Penrod shouted aloud, prancing up and down the carriage house with the horn. Roddy was happy too and mingled his voice with Penrod's. Hi, hi, hi! shouted Roddy Bitts. I'm going to buy me an air gun down at Fox's hardware store. And he departed galloping. He returned the following afternoon. School was over and Penrod and Sam were again in the stable. Penrod was practicing upon the horn with Sam for an unenthusiastic spectator and auditor. Master Bitts' brow was heavy. He looked uneasy. Penrod, he began. I got to Penrod remove the horn briefly from his lips. Don't come banging around here and interrupt me all the time, he said severely. I got to practice and he again pressed the mouthpiece to his lips. He was none of those whom importance makes gracious. Look here, Penrod, said Roddy. I got to have that horn back. Penrod lowered the horn quickly enough at this. What you talking about, he demanded. What you want to come banging around here for and I come around here for that horn, Master Bitts returned. And his manner was both dogged and apprehensive. The apprehension being more prevalent when he looked at Sam. I got to have that horn, he said. Sam, who had been sitting in the wheelbarrow, jumped up and began to dance triumphantly. Yay, it wasn't his after all. Roddy Bitts told a big lie. I never either. Roddy almost wailed. Well, what you want the horn back for, the terrible Sam demanded. Well, because I want it. I got a right to want it if I want to, haven't I? Penrod's face had flushed with indignation. You look here, Sam, he began heartily. Didn't you hear Roddy say this was his horn? He said it, Sam declared. He said it a million times. Well, and didn't he sell this horn to me? Yes, sir. Didn't I pay him money cash down for it? Two dollars. Well, and ain't it my horn now, Sam? You betcha. Yes, sir, Penrod went on with vigor. It's my horn now whether it belonged to you or not, Roddy, because you sold it to me. And I paid my good old money for it. I guess a thing belongs to the person that paid their own money for it, doesn't it? I don't have to give up my own property, even if you did come on over here and told us a big lie. I never shouted, Roddy. It was my horn too, and I didn't tell any such a thing. He paused, then, reverting to his former manner, said stubbornly, I got to have that horn back. I got to. Won't you tell us what for, then, Sam insisted. Roddy's glance at this persecutor was one of anguish. I know my own business, he muttered. And while Sam jeered, Roddy turned to Penrod desperately. You give me that horn back. I got to have it! But Penrod followed Sam's lead. Well, why can't you tell us what for, he asked? Perhaps if Sam had not been there, Roddy could have unbosomed himself. He had no doubt of his own virtue in this affair, and he was conscious that he had acted in good faith throughout, though perhaps a little impulsively. But he was in a predicament, and he knew that if he became more explicit, Sam could establish with undeniable logic those rights about which he had been so odious the day before. Such triumph for Sam was not within Roddy's power to contemplate. He felt that he would rather die or something. I got to have that horn, he reiterated, wouldn't he? Penrod had no intention to humor this preposterous boy, and it was only out of curiosity that he asked, Well, if you want the horn back, where's the two dollars? I spent it. I bought an air gun for a dollar and sixty-five cents, and three sodies and some candy with the rest. I'll owe you the two dollars, Penrod. I'm willing to do that much. Well, why don't you give him the air gun, asked the satirical Sam, and owe him the rest? I can't. Papa took the air gun away from me because he don't like something I did with it. I got to owe you the whole two dollars, Penrod. Look here, Roddy, said Penrod. Don't you suppose I'd rather keep this horn and blow on it than have you owe me two dollars? There was something about this simple question which convinced Roddy that his cause was lost. His hopes had been but faint from the beginning of the interview. Well, said Roddy, for a time he scuffed the floor with his shoe. Dog gone it, he said at last, and he departed morosely. Penrod had already begun to practice again, and Mr. Williams, after vain appeals to be permitted to practice in turn, sank into the wheelbarrow in a state of boredom, not remarkable under the circumstances. Then Penrod contrived, it may have been accidental, to produce at one blast two tones which varied in pitch. His pride and excitement were extreme, though not contagious. Listen, Sam, he shouted. How's that for high? The bored Sam made no response other than to rise languidly to his feet, stretch, and start for home. Left alone, Penrod's practice became less ardent. He needed the stimulus of an auditor. With the horn upon his lap, he began to rub the greenish brass surface with a rag. He meant to make this good old two dollar horn of his look like something. Presently, moved by a better idea, he left the horn in the stable and went into the house, soon afterward appearing before his mother in the library. Mama, he said complainingly, Della won't, but Mrs. Schofield checked him. Shh, Penrod, your father's reading the paper. Penrod glanced at Mr. Schofield, who sat near the window, reading by the last light of the early sunset. Well, I know it, said Penrod, lowering his voice, but I wish you'd tell Della to let me have the silver polish. She says she won't, and I want to be quiet, Penrod. You can't have the silver polish. But Mama, not another word. Can't you see you're interrupting your father? Go on, Papa. Mr. Schofield read aloud several dispatches from abroad, and after each one of them, Penrod began in a low but pleading tone. Mama, I want, shh, Penrod. Mr. Schofield continued to read, and Penrod remained in the room, for he was determined to have the silver polish. Here's something curious, said Mr. Schofield, as his eye fell upon a paragraph among the locals. What? Valuable relic missing, Mr. Schofield read. It was reported at police headquarters today that a valuable object had been stolen from the collection of antique musical instruments owned by E. Magsworth-Bitz, 724 Central Avenue. The police insist that it must have been an inside job, but Mr. Magsworth-Bitz inclined to think it was the work of a Negro, as only one article was removed and nothing else found to be disturbed. The object stolen was an ancient hunting horn dating from the 18th century and claimed to have belonged to Louis XV, King of France. It was valued at about $1,250. Mrs. Schofield opened her mouth wide. Why? That is curious, she exclaimed. She jumped up. Penrod! But Penrod was no longer in the room. What's the matter, Mr. Schofield inquired? Penrod, said Mrs. Schofield breathlessly. He bought an old horn, like one in old hunting pictures yesterday. He bought it with some money Uncle Joe gave him. He bought it from Roddy Bitz. Where'd he go? Together they rushed to the back porch. Penrod had removed the lid of the cistern. He was kneeling beside it, and the fact that the diameter of the opening into the cistern was one inch less than the diameter of the coil of Louis XV's hunting horn was all that had just saved Louis XV's hunting horn from joining the drowned trousers of Herman. Such was Penrod's instinct, and thus loyally he had followed it. He was dragged into the library, expecting anything, whatever. The dreadful phrases of the newspaper item rang through his head like gongs of delirium. Police headquarters, work of a negro, King of France, valued at about $1,250. $85 had dismayed him. $1,250 was unthinkable. Nightmares were coming to life before his eyes. But a light broke slowly. It came first to Mr. and Mrs. Schofield, and it was they who illuminated Penrod. Slowly, slowly, as they spoke more and more pleasantly to him, it began to dawn upon him that this trouble was all Roddy's. And when Mr. Schofield went to take the horn to the house of Mr. Ethelbert Magsworth-Bitz, Penrod sat quietly with his mother. Mr. Schofield was gone an hour and a half. Upon his solemn return, he reported that Roddy's father had been summoned by telephone to bring his son to the house of Uncle Ethelbert. Mr. Bitz had forthwith appeared with Roddy, and when Mr. Schofield came away, Roddy was still, after half an hour's previous efforts, explaining his honorable intentions. Mr. Schofield indicated that Roddy's condition was agitated and that he was having a great deal of difficulty in making his position clear. Penrod's imagination paused outside the threshold of that room in Mr. Ethelbert Magsworth-Bitz's house, and awe fell upon him when he thought of it. Roddy seemed to have disappeared within a shrouding mist and Penrod's mind refused to follow him. Well, he got back his old horn, said Sam after school the next afternoon. I knew we had a perfect right to call him whatever we wanted to. I bet you hated to give up that good old horn, Penrod. But Penrod was serene. He was even a little superior. He said, I'm going to learn to play on something better in any old horn. It's lots better because you can carry it around with you anywhere and you couldn't a horn. What is it, Sam asked? Not too much pleased by Penrod's air of superiority and high content. You mean a Jews harp? I guess not. I mean a flute with all silver on it and everything. My father's going to buy me one. I bet he isn't. He is too, said Penrod, soon as I'm twenty-one years old. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 of Penrod and Sam This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Jonathan Burchard, April 2009 Penrod and Sam by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 23 of the party. Miss Amy Rensdale At home, Saturday the 23rd from 3 to 6 RSVP Dancing This little card, delicately engraved, betoken the hospitality incidental to the 9th birthday anniversary of Baby Rensdale, youngest member of the Friday afternoon dancing class and, by the same token, it represented the total social activity during that season of a certain limited bachelor set consisting of Messer's Penrod, Scofield and Samuel Williams. The truth must be faced, Penrod and Sam were seldom invited to small parties. They were considered too imaginative. But in the case of so large an affair as Miss Rensdale's, the feeling that their parents would be sensitive outweighed fears of what Penrod and Sam might do at the party. Reputation is indeed a bubble, but sometimes it is blown of sticky stuff. The comrades set out for the fate in company. Final maternal outpourings upon deportment and the duty of dancing with the host is evaporating in their freshly cleaned ears. Both boys, however, were in a state of mind, body and decoration appropriate to the gay lacine they were approaching. Their collars were white and white. Inside the pockets of their overcoats were glistening dancing pumps wrapped in tissue paper. Inside their jacket pockets were pleasant smelling new white gloves, and inside their heads solemn timidity commingled with glittering anticipations. Before them, like a Christmas tree glimpsed through lace curtains, they beheld joy shimmering. Music, ice cream, macaroons, tinsel caps and the starched ladies of their hearts. Penrod and Sam walked to merely yet almost boundingly. Their faces were shining but grave. They were on their way to the party. Look at there, said Penrod. There's Carly Chittin. Where, Sam asked, crossed the street. Haven't you got any eyes? Well, why don't you say he was crossed the street in the first place, Sam returned plaintively? Besides, he's so little you can't hardly see him. This was, of course, a violent exaggeration, though Master Chittin, not yet eleven years old, was an inch or two short for his age. He's all dressed up, Sam added. I guess he must be invited. I bet he does something, said Penrod. I bet he does, too, Sam agreed. This was the extent of their comment upon the small person across the street, but in spite of its non-committal character, the manner of both commentators seemed to indicate that they had just exchanged views upon an interesting and even curious subject. They walked along in silence for several minutes, staring speculatively at Master Chittin. His appearance was pleasant and not remarkable. He was a handsome, dark little boy, with quick eyes and a precociously reserved expression. His air was well-bred, he was exquisitely neat, and he had a look of manly competence that grown people found attractive and reassuring. In short, he was a boy of whom a timid adult stranger would have inquired the way with confidence, but Sam and Penrod had mysterious thoughts about him. Obviously, there was something subterranean here. They continued to look at him for the greater part of the block. When their progress bringing them inside of Miss Amy Rensdale's place of residence, their attention was directed to a group of men bearing festal burdens, encased violins, a shrouded harp, and other beckoning shapes. There were signs, too, that most of those invited intended to miss no moment of this party. Guests already indoors watched from the windows the approach of the musicians, washed boys in black and white, and girls in tender colors converged from various directions, making gayly for the thrilling gateway. And the most beautiful little girl in all the world, Marjorie Jones of the Amber Curls, jumped from a carriage step to the curb stone as Penrod and Sam came up. She waved to them. Sam responded heartily, but Penrod, feeling real emotion and seeking to conceal it, muttered, low Marjorie, gruffly, offering no further demonstration. Marjorie paused a moment, expectant, and then, as he did not seize the opportunity to ask her for the first dance, she tried not to look disappointed and ran into the house ahead of the two boys. Penrod was scarlet. He wished to dance the first dance with Marjorie, and the second, and the third, and all the other dances, and he strongly desired to sit with her at refreshments, but he had been unable to ask for a single one of these privileges. It would have been impossible for him to state why he was thus dumb, although the reason was simple and wholly complementary to Marjorie. She had looked so overpoweringly pretty that she had produced in the bosom of her admirer a severe case of stage fright. That was all that mattered with him, but it was the beginning of his troubles, and he did not recover until he and Sam reached the gentleman's dressing room, whether they were directed by a polite colored man. Here they found a cloud of acquaintances getting into pumps and gloves, and in a few extreme cases, readjusting their hair before a mirror. Some even went so far after removing their shoes and putting on their pumps, as to wash traces of blacking from their hands in the adjacent bathroom before assuming their gloves. Penrod, being in a strange mood, was one of these, sharing the basin with little Maurice Levy. Carly Chittins here, said Maurice as they soaked their hands. I guess I know it, Penrod returned. I bet he does something too. Maurice shook his head ominously. Well, I'm getting tired of it. I know he was the one stuck that cold fried egg in Professor Barte's overcoat pocket at dance in school, and old professor went and blamed it on me. Then Carly, he came up to me the other day, and he says, smell my buttonhole bouquet. He had some violet sticking in his buttonhole, and I went to smell him, and water squirted on me out of him. He stood about enough, and if he does another thing I don't like, he better look out. Penrod showed some interest, inquiring for details, whereupon Maurice explained that if Master Chittin displeased him further, Master Chittin would receive a blow upon one of his features. Maurice was simple and homely about it, seeking rhetorical vigor rather than eloquence. In fact, what he definitely promised Master Chittin was a bang on the snoot. Well, said Penrod, I expect he knows too much for that. A cry of pain was heard from the dressing room at this juncture, and glancing through the doorway, Maurice and Penrod beheld Sam Williams in the act of sucking his right thumb with vehemence, though while his brow was contorted and his eyes watered. He came into the bathroom and held his thumb under a faucet. That darn little Carly Chittin, he complained. He asked me to hold a little tin box he showed me. He told me to hold it between my thumb and fingers and he'd show me something. Then he pushed the lid and a big needle came out of a hole and stuck me half through my thumb. That's a nice way to act, isn't it? Carly Chittin's dark head showed itself cautiously beyond the casing of the door. How's your thumb, Sam? He asked. You wait, Sam shouted, turning furiously, but the small prestidigitator was gone. With a smothered laugh, Carly dashed through the groups of boys in the dressing room and made his way downstairs. His manner reverting to his usual polite gravity before he entered the drawing room where his hostess waited. Music sounding at about this time, he was followed by the other boys who came trooping down, leaving the dressing room empty. Penrod, among the tail-enders of the procession, made his dancing school bow to Miss Rensdale and her grown-up supporters, two maiden aunts and a governess. Then he looked about for Marjorie, discovering her butt too easily. Her amber curls were swaying gently towards the music. She looked never more beautiful and her partner was Master Chittin. A pang of great penetrative power and equal unexpectedness found the most vulnerable spot beneath the simple black of Penrod Schofield's jacket. Straight way, he turned his back upon the crash-covered floors where the dancers were and moved gloomily toward the hall. But one of the maiden aunts Rensdale way-laid him. It's Penrod Schofield, isn't it? She asked. I'm not sure which. Is it Penrod? Ma'am, he said. Yes, ma'am. Well, Penrod, I can find a partner for you. There are several dear little girls over here. If you'll come with me. Well, he paused, shifted from one foot to the other and looked enigmatic. I better not, he said. He meant no offense. His trouble was only that he had not yet learned how to do as he pleased at a party and at the same time to seem polite about it. He added, Very well. And Miss Rensdale instantly left him to his own devices. He went to lurk in the wide doorway between the hall and the drawing room. Under such conditions, the universal refuge of his sex at all ages. There, he found several boys of notorious shyness and stood with them in a mutually protective group. Now in them, one of them would lean upon another until repelled by action in a husky, What's the matter with you? Get off of me! He then connects uneasily against the inner bands of their collars, at intervals, and sometimes exchange facetious blows under cover. In the distance, Penrod caught glimpses of amber curls flashing to and fro, and he knew himself to be among the derelicts. He remained in this questionable sanctuary during the next dance, but edging along the wall to lean more comfortably in a corner, as the music of the third sounded, he overheard part of a conversation that somewhat concerned him. Penrod was just Miss Lowe, and that one of the aunts Rensdale who had offered to provide him with a partner. These two ladies were standing just in front of him, unconscious of his nearness. I never, Miss Rensdale said, never saw a more fascinating little boy than that Carly Chitten. There will be some heartaches when he grows up. I can't keep my eyes off him. Yes, he's a charming boy, Miss Lowe said. His manners are remarkable. Miss Rensdale went on, very different from such boys as Penrod Schofield. Oh, Penrod, Miss Lowe exclaimed, good gracious. I don't see why he came. He declines to dance, rudely too. I don't think the little girls will mind that so much, Miss Lowe said. If you'd come to the dancing class on some Friday afternoon with Amy and me, you'd understand why. They moved away. Penrod heard his name again mentioned between them as they went. And though he did not catch the accompanying remark, he was inclined to think it unfavorable. He remained where he was, brooding morbidly. He understood that the government was against him, nor was his judgment at fault in this conclusion. He was affected also by the conduct of Marjorie, who was now dancing gaily with Maurice Levy, a former rival of Penrod's. The fact that Penrod had not gone near her did not make her culpability seem the less. In his gloomy heart, he asked her for one single dance. He would not go near her. He would not go near any of them. His eyes began to burn and he swallowed heavily. But he was never one to succumb piteously to such emotion, and it did not even enter his head that he was at liberty to return to his own home. Neither he nor any of his friends had ever left a party until it was officially concluded. What his sufferings demanded of him now for their alleviation was not departure, but action. On the surface, nearly all children's parties contain a group of outlaws who await only for a leader to hoist the black flag. The group consists mainly of boys too shy to be at ease with the girls, but who wish to distinguish themselves in some way. And there are others, ordinarily well behaved, whom the mere actuality of a party makes drunken. The effect of music, too, upon children is incalculable, especially when they do not hear it often, and both a snare drum and a bass drum are a defensive orchestra at the Rensdale party. Nevertheless, the outlawry at any party may remain insipient unless a chieftain appears, but in Penrod's corner we're now gathering into one anarchical mood all the necessary qualifications for leadership. Out of that bitter corner they're stepped, not a Penrod's go-field subdued and hoping to win the lost favor of the authorities, but a heart-hearted rebel determined on an uprising. Smiling a reckless and challenging smile, he returned to the cluster of boys in the wide doorway and began to push one and another of them about. They responded hopefully with counter-pushes, and presently there was a tumultuous surging and eddying in that quarter, accompanied by noises that began to compete with the music. Then Penrod allowed himself to be shoved out amongst the circling dancers so that he collided with Marjorie and Maurice Levy, almost over-setting them. He made a mock bow and a mock apology, being inspired to invent a jargon phrase. Excuse me, he said, at the same time making vocal his own conception of a taunting laugh. Excuse me, but I must have got your bumpus. Marjorie grieved and turned away with Maurice, but the boys in the doorway squealed with maniac laughter. Got your bumpus, got your bumpus, they shrilled, and they began to push others of their number against the dancing couple shouting, excuse me, got your bumpus. It became a contagion and then a game. As the dances went on, strings of boys, led by Penrod, pursued one another across the rooms howling, got your bumpus, at the top of their lungs. They dodged, induct, and seized upon dancers as shields. They carromed from one couple into another and even into the musicians of the orchestra. Boys who were dancing abandoned their partners and joined the marauders, shrieking, got your bumpus. Pottered plants went down. A slender guilt chair refused to support the hurled body of Master Roderick Magsworth-Bitts, and the sound of splintering wood mingled with other sounds. Dancing became impossible. Miss Amy Rensdale wept in the midst of the riot and everybody knew that Penrod Schofield had started it. Under instructions, the leader of the orchestra, clapping his hands for attention, stepped to the center of the drawing room and shouted, a moment's silence if you please! Slowly the hub obscised. They could pause to liken their courses to listen. Miss Amy Rensdale was born away to have her tearful face washed and Marjorie Jones and Carly Chitton and Georgie Bassett came forward consciously, escorted by Miss Low. The musician waited until the return of the small hostess, then he announced in a loud voice. A fancy dance called Le Pepeon danced by Miss Amy Rensdale, Miss Jones, Mr. George Passett, and Mr. Chitton. Some young gentlemen have made so much noise and confusion, Miss Low wished me to ask, please no more such a nonsense! Fancy dance Le Pepeon! Thereupon, after formal salutations, Mr. Chitton took Marjorie's hand, Georgie Bassett took Miss Rensdale's, and they proceeded to dance Le Pepeon, in a manner that made up in conscientiousness whatever it may have lacked in abandon. The outlaw leader looked on, smiling a smile intended to represent careless contempt, and was unpleasantly surprised. A fancy dance by Georgie Bassett and Baby Rensdale was customary at every party attended by members of the Friday afternoon dancing class, but Marjorie and Carly Chitton were new performers, and Penrod had not heard that they had learned to dance Le Pepeon together. He was the further embittered. Carly made a false step, recovering himself with some difficulty, whereupon a loud, jeering squawk of laughter was heard from the insurgent cluster, which had been odd to temporary quiet the bass in the drawing room doorway. There was a general shh, followed by a shocked whispering, as well as a general turning of eyes toward Penrod. But it was not Penrod who had laughed, though no one would have credited him with an alibi. The laughter came from two throats that breathed as one with such perfect simultaneousness that only one was credited with the disturbance. These two throats belonged, respectively, to Samuel Williams and Maurice Levy, who were standing in a strikingly Rosencrantz and Guildenstern attitude. He got me with his old tin-box needle, too, Maurice muttered to Sam. He was going to do it to Marjorie, and I told her to look out, and he says, Here you take it! All of a sudden, and he stuck it in my hand so quick I never thought. And then BIM! his old needle shot out, and Purdineer went through my thumb bone or something. He'll be sorry before this day's over. Well, said Sam darkly, he's going to be sorry he stuck me anyway. Neither Sam nor Maurice had even the vaguest plan for causing the desired regret in the breast of Master Chitton, but both derived a little consolation from these prophecies, and they, too, had aligned themselves with the insurgents. Their motives were personal. Carly Chitton had wronged both of them, and Carly was conspicuously in high favor with the authorities. Naturally, Sam and Maurice were against the authorities. Le Papillon came to a conclusion. Carly and Georgie bowed, Marjorie Jones and baby Rensdale curtsied, and there was loud applause. In fact, the demonstration became so uproarious that some measure of it was open to suspicion, especially as hisses of reptilian venomousness were commingled with it, and also a horse but vociferous repetition of the dastard words, Carly dances rotten! Again, it was the work of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, but the plot was attributed to another. Shame Penrod Schofield said both of the ants publicly, and Penrod, wholly innocent, became scarlet with indignant mortification. Carly Chitton himself, however, marked the true offenders. A slight flush tinted his cheeks, and then, in his quiet, self-contained way, he slipped through the crowd of boys and girls unnoticed into the hall, and ran noiselessly up the stairs and into the gentleman's dressing room, now inhabited only by hats, caps, overcoats, and the temporarily discarded shoes of the dancers. Most of the shoes stood in rows against the wall, and Carly examined these rows attentively, after a time discovering a pair of shoes with patent leather tips. He knew them, they belonged to Maurice Levy, and picking them up, he went to a corner of the room where four shoes had been left together under a chair. Upon the chair were overcoats and caps that he was able to identify as the property of Penrod Schofield and Samuel Williams, but, as he was not sure which pair of shoes belonged to Penrod and which to Sam, he added both pairs to Maurice's and carried them into the bathroom. Here, he set the plug in the tub, turned the faucets, and after looking about him and discovering large supplies of all sorts in a wall cabinet, he tossed six cakes of green soap into the tub. He let the soap remain in the water to soften a little, and returning to the dressing room, wild away the time in mixing and mismating pairs of shoes along the walls, and also in tying the strings of the mismated shoes together in hard knots. Throughout all this, his expression was grave and intent. His bright eyes grew brighter, but he did not smile. Carly Chitten was a singular boy, though not unique. He was an only child, lived at a hotel, and found life there favorable to the development of certain peculiarities in his nature. He played a lone hand, and with what precocious diplomacy he played that curious hand was attested by the fact that Carly was brilliantly esteemed by parents and guardians in general. It must be said for Carly that, in one way, his nature was liberal. For instance, having come upstairs to prepare a vengeance upon Sam and Maurice in return for their slurs upon his dancing, he did not confine his efforts to the belongings of those two alone. He provided every boy in the house with something to think about later when shoes should be resumed, and he was far from stopping at that, casting about him for some material that he desired. He opened the door of the dressing room and found himself confronting the apartment of Miss Low. Upon a desk, he beheld the bottle of mucilage he wanted, and having taken possession of it, he allowed his eye the privilege of a rapid glance into a dressing table drawer, accidentally left open. He returned to the dressing room five seconds later, carrying not only the mucilage, but a switch, worn by Miss Low when her hair was dressed in a fashion different from what she had favored for the party. This switch he placed in the pocket of a juvenile overcoat unknown to him, and then he took the mucilage into the bathroom. There he rescued from the water the sixth case of soap, placed one in each of the six shoes, pounding it down securely into the toe of the shoe with the handle of a back brush. After that, Carly poured mucilage into all six shoes impartially until the bottle was empty, then took them back to their former positions in the dressing room. Finally, with careful forethought, he took his own shoes in the pockets of his overcoat and left the overcoat in his cap upon a chair near the outer door of the room. Then he went quietly downstairs, having been absent from the festivities a little less than twelve minutes. He had been energetic, only a boy could have accomplished so much in so short a time. In fact, Carly had been so busy that his forgetting to turn off the faucets in the bathroom is not at all surprising. No one had noticed his absence. That infectious pastime got your bumpus, had broken out again, and the general dancing, which had been resumed upon the conclusion of La Papillon, was once more becoming demoralized. Despairingly, the aunt's Rensdale and Miss Low brought forth from the rear of the house a couple of waiters and commanded them to arrest the ringleaders, whereupon hilarious terror spread among the outlaw band, shouting tauntingly at their pursuers they fled and bellowing, trampling flights swept through every quarter of the house. Refreshments quelled this outbreak for a time, the orchestra played a march, Carly Chitten and Georgie Bassett with Amy Rensdale and Marchery formed the head of a procession, while all the boys who had retained their sense of decorum immediately sought partners and fell in behind. The outlaws, succumbing to ice cream hunger, followed suit, one after the other, until all of the girls were provided with escorts. Then, to the moral strains of the stars and stripes forever, the children paraded out to the dining room. Two and two they marched, except at the extreme tail end of the line, where, since there were three more boys than girls at the party, the three leftover boys were placed. These three were also the last three outlaws to succumb and return to civilization from outlying portions of the house after the pursuit by waiters. They were messieurs Maurice Levy, Samuel Williams and Penrod Schofield. They took their chairs in the capacious dining room quietly enough, though their expressions were eloquent of bravado, and they jostled one another and their neighbors intentionally, even in the act of sitting. However, it was not long before delectable foods engaged their whole attention, and Miss Amy Rensdale's party relapsed into etiquette for the following twenty minutes. The refection concluded with the mild explosion of paper crackers that erupted bright-colored, fantastic headgear, and during the snapping of the crackers, Penrod heard the laughter behind him. Carly and Amy, will you change chairs with Georgie Bassett and me, just for fun? The chairs had been placed in rows back to back, and Penrod would not even turn his head to see if Master Chittin and Miss Rensdale accepted Marjorie's proposal, though they were directly behind him and Sam, but he grew red and breathed hard. A moment later, the liberty cap that he had set upon his head was softly removed, and a little crown of silver paper put in its place. Penrod? The whisper was close to his ear, and a gentle breath cooled the back of his neck. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 of Penrod and Sam This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jonathan Burchard April 2009 Penrod and Sam by Booth Tarkington, Chapter 24 The Heart of Marjorie Jones Well, what do you want? Penrod asked breastly, Marjorie's wonderful eyes were dark and mysterious, like still water at twilight. What makes you behave so awful? she whispered. I don't either. I guess I got a right to do the way I want to, haven't I? Well, anyway, said Marjorie, you ought to quit bumping into people so it hurts. It wouldn't hurt a fly. Yes, it did. It hurt when you bumped Maurice in me that time. It didn't either. Where did it hurt you? Let's see if it—well, I can't show you, but it did. Penrod, are you going to keep on? I will if I feel like it, and I won't if I feel like it. You wait and see. But Marjorie jumped up and ran around to him, abandoning her escort. All the children were leaving their chairs and moving toward the dancing rooms. The orchestra was playing dance music again. Come on, Penrod, Marjorie cried. Let's go dance this dance together. Come on. With seeming reluctance, he suffered her to lead him away. Well, I'll go with you, but I won't dance, he said. I wouldn't dance with the president of the United States. Why, Penrod? Well, because, well, I won't do it. All right, I don't care. I guess I've danced plenty anyhow. Let's go in here. She led him into a room too small for dancing, used ordinarily by Miss Amy Rensdale's father as his study, and now vacant. For a while, there was silence, but finally Marjorie pointed to the window and said shyly, Look, Penrod, it's getting dark. The party will be over soon, and you've never danced one single time. Well, I guess I know that, don't I? He was unable to cast aside his outward truculence, though it was but a relic. However, his voice was gentler and Marjorie seemed satisfied. From the other rooms came the swinging music, shouts of, Got your bubbas! sounds of stumbling, of scrambling, of running, of muffled concussed signs, and squeals of dismay. Penrod's followers were renewing the wild work, even in the absence of their chief. Penrod Scofield, you bad boy, said Marjorie, you started every bit of that, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I didn't do anything, he said, and he believed it. Pick on me for everything. Well, they wouldn't if he didn't do so much, said Marjorie. They would, too. They wouldn't either, who would? That Miss Lowe, he specified bitterly, yes, and baby Rensdale's aunts. If the house had burned down, I'd bet they'd say Penrod Scofield did it. Anybody does anything at all, they say, Penrod Scofield, shame on you! When we were that, Penrod, I just hate that little Carly Chitton. Professor Bartet made me learn that dance with him, but I just hate him. Penrod was now almost completely mollified. Nevertheless, he continued to set forth his grievance. Well, they all turned around to me, and they said, why, Penrod Scofield, shame on you, and I hadn't done a single thing. I was just standing there. They got to blame me, though. Marjorie laughed airily. Well, if you aren't the foolishest, they would too, he asserted, with renewed bitterness. If the house was to fall down, you'd see. They'd all say, Marjorie interrupted him. She put her hand on the top of her head, looking a little startled. What's that, she said? What's what? Like rain, Marjorie cried. Like it was raining in here. A drop fell on my... Why it couldn't, he began, to fall upon his head too. And looking up, they beheld a great oozing splotch upon the ceiling. Drops were gathering upon it and falling. The tinted plaster was cracking, and a little stream began to pat her down and splash upon the floor. Then, there came a resounding thump upstairs, just above them, and fragments of wet plaster fell. The roof must be leaking, said Marjorie, beginning to be alarmed. Couldn't be the roof, said Penrod. Besides, there ain't any rain outdoors. As he spoke, a second slender stream of water began to pat her upon the floor of the hall outside the door. Could gracious Marjorie cried, while the ceiling above them shook as with earthquake, or as with boys in numbers jumping, and a great uproar burst forth overhead. I believe the house is falling down, Penrod, she quavered. Well, they'll blame me for it, he said. Anyways, we better get out of here. I guess something must be the matter. His guest was accurate, so far as it went. The dance music had swung into home, sweet home, sometime before. The children were preparing to leave, and Master Chitin had been the first boy to ascend to the gentleman's dressing room for his cap, overcoat, and shoes. His motive, being to avoid by departure any difficulty in case his earlier activity should cause him to be suspected by the other boys. But in the doorway, he halted, the lights had not been turned on, but even the dim windows showed that the polished floor gave back reflections no floor polish had ever equalled. It was a gently steaming lake, from an eighth to a quarter of an inch deep, and Carly realized that he had forgotten to turn off the faucets in the bathroom. For a moment, his Savoie fair deserted him, and he was filled with ordinary human boy panic. Then, at a sound of voices behind him, he lost his head and rushed into the bathroom. It was dark, but certain sensations in the splashing of his pumps warned him that the water was deeper in there. The next instant, the lights were switched on in both bathroom and dressing room, and Carly beheld Sam Williams in the doorway of the former. Oh, look, Maurice! Sam shouted, in frantic excitement, somebody's let the tub run over, and it's about ten feet deep! Carly Chitin sloshing around in the air. Let's hold the door on him and keep him in. Carly rushed to prevent the execution of this project, but he went swishing full length upon the floor, creating a little surf before him as he slid, to the demoniac happiness of Sam and Maurice. They closed the door, however, and as other boys rushed, shouting and splashing into the flooded dressing room, Carly began to hammer upon the panels. Then, the owners of shoes, striving to rescue them from the increasing waters, made discoveries. The most dangerous time to give a large children's party is when there has not been one for a long period. The Rensdale party had that misfortune, and its climax was the complete and convulsive madness of the gentlemen's dressing room during those final moments supposed to be given to quiet preparations on the part of guests for departure. In the upper hall and upon the stairway, panic-stricken little girls listened wild-eyed to the uproar that went on, while waiters and maid servants rushed in with pales and towels into what was essentially the worst ward in Bedlam. Boys who had behaved properly all afternoon now gave way and joined the confraternity of lunatics. The floors of the house shook to trampolings, rushes, wrestlings, falls and collisions. The walls resounded to chorused bellowings and roars. There were pipings of pain and pipings of joy. There was whistling to pierce the drums of ears. There were hootings and howlings and bleeding and screechings, while overall bleated the heathen battle cry incessantly. For the boys had been inspired by the unusual water to transform Penrod's game of Got Your Bumpus into an aquatic sport, and to induce one another by means of superior force, dexterity or stratagems either to sit or to lie at full length in the flood after the example of Carly Chitten. One of the aunts Rensdale had taken what charge she could of the deafened and distracted maids and waiters who were working to stem the tide, while the other of the aunts Rensdale stood with her niece and miss low at the foot of the stairs trying to say good night reassuring to those of the terrified little girls to tear themselves away. This latter aunt Rensdale marked a dripping figure that came unobtrusively and yet in a self-contained and gentlemanly manner down the stairs. Carly Chitten, she cried, you poor dear child, you're soaking. To think those outrageous little fiends wouldn't even spare you. As she spoke another departing male guest came from behind Carly and placed in her hand a snake-like article, a thing that miss low seized and concealed one sweeping gesture. It's some false hair somebody must have put in my overcoat pocket, said Roderick Magsworth-Bitts. Well, good night. Thank you for a very nice time. Good night, miss Rensdale, said master Chitten de Mirely. Thank you for, but miss Rensdale detained him. Carly, she said earnestly, you're a dear boy and I know you'll tell me something. It was all Penrod Schofield, wasn't it? You mean he left the I mean, she said in a low tone, not altogether devoid of ferocity. I mean it was Penrod who left the faucets running and Penrod who tied the boys' shoes together and filled some of them with soap and mucilage and put miss Low's hair in Roderick's overcoat. No, look me in the eye, Carly. They were all shouting that silly thing he started. Didn't he do it? Carly cast down thoughtful eyes. I wouldn't like to tell, miss Rensdale, he said. But I guess I better go, or I'll catch cold. Thank you for a very nice time. There, said miss Rensdale vehemently, as Carly went on his way, what did I tell you? Carly Chitten's too manly to say it, but I just know it was that terrible Penrod Schofield. Behind her, a low voice, unheard by all except the person to whom it spoke, repeated a part of this speech. What did I tell you? The voice belonged to Penrod Schofield. Penrod and Marjorie had descended by another stairway, and he now considered it wiser to pass to the rear of the little party at the foot of the stairs. As he was still in his pumps, his choked shoes occupying his overcoat pockets, he experienced no difficulty in reaching the front door and getting out of it unobserved, although the noise upstairs was greatly abated. Marjorie, however, made her curtsies in farewells in a creditable manner. There, Penrod said again when she rejoined him in the darkness outside, what did I tell you? Didn't I say I'd get the blame of it, no matter if the house went and fell down? I suppose they think I put Muselage and Soap in my own shoes. Marjorie delayed at the gate until some eagerly talking little girls had passed out. The name Penrod Schofield was thick and scandalous among them. Well, said Marjorie, I wouldn't care, Penrod. Of course, about Soap and Muselage anybody know some other boy must have put him there to get even for what you put in his. Penrod gasped. But I didn't, he cried. I didn't do anything. That old Miss Rensdale can say what she wants to, I didn't do. Well, anyway, Penrod said Marjorie softly, they can't ever prove it was you. He felt himself suffocating in a coil against which no struggle availed. But I never did it, he wailed helplessly. I never did anything at all. She leaned toward him a little, and the lights from her waiting carriage illumined her dimly, but enough for him to see that her look was fond and proud, yet almost odd. Anyway, Penrod, she whispered, I don't believe there's any other boy in the whole world could have done half as much. And with that she left him and ran out to the carriage. But Penrod remained by the gate to wait for Sam, and the burden of his sorrows was beginning to lift. In fact, he felt a great deal better, in spite of his having just discovered why Marjorie loved him. End of Chapter 24 and End of Penrod and Sam by Booth Tarkington Recorded by Jonathan Berchard April 2009 Perth, Western Australia