Penrod went home in splendour, pretending that he and Duke were a long
procession; and he made enough noise to render the auricular 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. Schofield, clasping his bilious 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 da--that third-hand concertina.”
“It's a 'cordian,” 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. Schofield 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 that 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. Schofield. “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?”
“Who do you mean, papa?”
“The man that gave you that ghastly Thing!”
“Yessir. A man gave it to me.”
“I say, Who WAS he?” shouted Mr. Schofield.
“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 paint's 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 walk----”
“That will do,” said Mr. Schofield, 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 crossly, 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 inquiry, 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. Schofield 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 neighbourhood, he managed to dislodge the iron cover of the
cistern, and dropped 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
banlieue 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 Mitchy-Mitch 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
extraordinarily large pickle, which he obtained from an aged negress for
his odd cent, 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 centres of
activity deep inside him, he paused for breath--and the cool, sweet
cadences of the watermelon man fell delectably upon his ear:
“Ice-cole WATER-melon; ice-cole water-MELON; the biggest slice of
ICE-cole, ripe, red, ICE-cole, rich an' rare; the biggest slice of
ice-cole watermelon ever cut by the hand of man! BUY our ICE-cole
water-melon?”
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 and 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 twenty cents change.
The box was too large to go into his pocket, but, having seated himself
among some wistful Polack 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 sandwiched mouthfuls
of peanuts with gobs of this mass until the peanuts were all gone. After
that, he ate with less avidity; 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 caterwauling 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 hottish 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 the desired
effect, and left a peculiar savour 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 mass of 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 a small cooking apparatus and shouted
jovially: “Winnies! HERE'S your hot winnies! Hot winny-WURST! Food for
the over-worked brain, nourishing for the weak stummick, entertaining
for the tired business man! HERE'S your hot winnies, three for a nickel,
a half-a-dime, the twentieth-pot-of-a-dollah!”
This, above all nectar and ambrosia, was the favourite dish of Penrod
Schofield. 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: “winny-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 redfaced man had
himself proclaimed his wares nourishing for the weak stummick.
Penrod placed the nickel in the red hand of the red-faced man.
He ate two of the three greasy, cigarlike shapes cordially pressed upon
him in return. The first bite convinced him that he had made a mistake;
these winnies seemed of a very inferior flavour, 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 redfaced 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--after dinner.”
He moved sluggishly away, wishing he had not thought of dinner. A
side-show, 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 colours
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.