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 been 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, remained coldly distant from the Jones neighbourhood.
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 chase a much bigger dog out of the Schofields' yard and far
down the street. This might be thought to indicate unusual valour on
the part of Duke and cowardice on that of the bigger dogs whom he
undoubtedly put to rout. On the contrary, all such flights were founded
in mere superstition, for dogs are even more superstitious than boys
and coloured 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 neighbourhood. 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 twelve or thirteen, who had
wandered into the neighbourhood.
“You better keep that ole yellow dog o' 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'd oughta 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:
“What's your dog's name?”
“Dan. You better call your ole pup, 'cause 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 favourably in spite
of former prejudice, so that presently the two trotted 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?”)
“Me? What number do I go to?” said the stranger, contemptuously. “I
don't go to NO number in vacation!”
“I mean when it ain't.”
“Third,” returned the fat-faced boy. “I got 'em 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 ever was in that school
about one day. You'd be lucky if you got out alive!”
“Are the teachers mean?”
The other boy frowned with bitter scorn. “Teachers! Teachers don't order
ME around, I can tell you! They're mighty careful how they try to run
over Rupe Collins.”
“Who's Rupe Collins?”
“Who is he?” echoed the fat-faced boy incredulously. “Say, ain't you got
ANY sense?”
“What?”
“Say, wouldn't you be just as happy if you had SOME sense?”
“Ye-es.” Penrod's answer, like the look he lifted to the impressive
stranger, was meek and placative. “Rupe Collins is the principal at your
school, guess.”
The other yelled with jeering laughter, and mocked Penrod's manner and
voice. “'Rupe Collins is the principal at your school, I guess!'” He
laughed harshly again, then suddenly showed truculence. “Say, 'bo,
whyn'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 Rupe Collins is:
I got a RIGHT to think he's the principal, haven't I?”
The fat-faced 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. “Rupe
Collins is your name, then, I guess. I kind of thought it was, all the
time.”
The fat-faced boy still appeared embittered, burlesquing this speech in
a hateful falsetto. “'Rupe 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, Rupe 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, 'BO?”
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?”
“'Cause if they had they'd of give 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 wart on your finger?” he demanded severely.
“Which finger?” asked the mystified Penrod, extending his hand.
“The middle one.”
“Where?”
“There!” exclaimed Rupe Collins, seizing and vigorously twisting the
wartless finger naively offered for his inspection.
“Quit!” shouted Penrod in agony. “QUEE-yut!”
“Say your prayers!” commanded Rupe, 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 Rupe's scornful expression altered to one of contrition. “Well,
I declare!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “I didn't s'pose it would hurt.
Turn about's fair play; so now you do that to me.”
He extended the middle finger of his left hand and Penrod promptly
seized it, but did not twist it, for he was instantly swung round with
his back to his amiable new acquaintance: Rupe's right hand operated
upon the back of Penrod's slender neck; Rupe's knee tortured the small
of Penrod's back.
“OW!” Penrod bent far forward involuntarily and went to his knees again.
“Lick dirt,” commanded Rupe, forcing the captive's face to the sidewalk;
and the suffering Penrod completed this ceremony.
Mr. Collins evinced satisfaction by means of his horse laugh.
“You'd last jest about one day up at the Third!” he said. “You'd come
runnin' home, yellin' 'MOM-MUH, MOM-muh,' before recess was over!”
“No, I wouldn't,” Penrod protested rather weakly, dusting his knees.
“You would, too!”
“No, I w----
“Looky here,” said the fat-faced boy, darkly, “what you mean,
counterdicking me?”
He advanced a step and Penrod hastily qualified his contradiction.
“I mean, I don't THINK I would. I----”
“You better look out!” Rupe moved closer, and unexpectedly grasped the
back of Penrod's neck again. “Say, 'I WOULD run home yellin' “MOM-muh!”'”
“Ow! I WOULD run home yellin' 'Mom-muh.'”
“There!” said Rupe, 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 Rupe, 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 Rupe 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, 'bo?”
He began a slow and deadly advance, whereupon Penrod timidly offered a
diversion:
“Say, Rupe, I got a box of rats in our stable under a glass cover, so
you can watch 'em jump around when you hammer on the box. Come on and
look at 'em.”
“All right,” said the fat-faced boy, slightly mollified. “We'll let Dan
kill 'em.”
“No, SIR! I'm goin' to keep 'em. They're kind of pets; I've had 'em all
summer--I got names for em, and----”
“Looky here, 'bo. Did you hear me say we'll let 'Dan kill 'em?”
“Yes, but I won't----”
“WHAT won't you?” Rupe became sinister immediately. “It seems to me
you're gettin' pretty fresh around here.”
“Well, I don't want----”
Mr. Collins once more brought into play the dreadful eye-to-eye scowl as
practised “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.
“Well, all right,” said Penrod, swallowing. “I don't want 'em 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, Rupe!” he cried enthusiastically, as he climbed the fence.
“We'll give our dogs a little live meat--'bo!”