When Marjorie and Mitchy-Mitch got their breath, they used it vocally;
and seldom have more penetrating sounds issued from human throats.
Coincidentally, Marjorie, quite baresark, laid hands upon the largest
stick within reach and fell upon Penrod with blind fury. He had the
presence of mind to flee, and they went round and round the caldron,
while Mitchy-Mitch feebly endeavoured to follow--his appearance, in
this pursuit, being pathetically like that of a bug fished out of an
ink-well, alive but discouraged.
Attracted by the riot, Samuel Williams made his appearance, vaulting a
fence, and was immediately followed by Maurice Levy and Georgie Bassett.
They stared incredulously at the extraordinary spectacle before them.
“Little GEN-TIL-MUN!” shrieked Marjorie, with a wild stroke that landed
full upon Penrod's tarry cap.
“OOOCH!” bleated Penrod.
“It's Penrod!” shouted Sam Williams, recognizing him by the voice. For
an instant he had been in some doubt.
“Penrod Schofield!” exclaimed Georgie Bassett. “WHAT does this mean?”
That was Georgie's style, and had helped to win him his title.
Marjorie leaned, panting, upon her stick. “I cu-called--uh--
him--oh!” she sobbed--“I called him a lul-little--oh--gentleman!
And oh--lul-look!--oh! lul-look at my du-dress! Lul-look at
Mumitchy--oh--Mitch--oh!”
Unexpectedly, she smote again--with results--and then, seizing the
indistinguishable hand of Mitchy-Mitch, she ran wailing homeward down
the street.
“'Little gentleman'?” said Georgie Bassett, with some evidences of
disturbed complacency. “Why, that's what they call ME!”
“Yes, and you ARE one, too!” shouted the maddened Penrod. “But you
better not let anybody call ME that! I've stood enough around here for
one day, and you can't run over ME, Georgie Bassett. Just you put that
in your gizzard and smoke it!”
“Anybody has a perfect right,” said Georgie, with, dignity, “to call a
person a little gentleman. There's lots of names nobody ought to call,
but this one's a NICE----”
“You better look out!”
Unavenged bruises were distributed all over Penrod, both upon his body
and upon his spirit. Driven by subtle forces, he had dipped his hands in
catastrophe and disaster: it was not for a Georgie Bassett to beard him.
Penrod was about to run amuck.
“I haven't called you a little gentleman, yet,” said Georgie. “I only
said it. Anybody's got a right to SAY it.”
“Not around ME! You just try it again and----”
“I shall say it,” returned Georgie, “all I please. Anybody in this town
has a right to SAY 'little gentleman'----”
Bellowing insanely, Penrod plunged his right hand into the caldron,
rushed upon Georgie and made awful work of his hair and features.
Alas, it was but the beginning! Sam Williams and Maurice Levy screamed
with delight, and, simultaneously infected, danced about the struggling
pair, shouting frantically:
“Little gentleman! Little gentleman! Sick him, Georgie! Sick him, little
gentleman! Little gentleman! Little gentleman!”
The infuriated outlaw turned upon them with blows and more tar, which
gave Georgie Bassett his opportunity and later seriously impaired the
purity of his fame. Feeling himself hopelessly tarred, he dipped both
hands repeatedly into the caldron and applied his gatherings to Penrod.
It was bringing coals to Newcastle, but it helped to assuage the just
wrath of Georgie.
The four boys gave a fine imitation of the Laocoon group complicated
by an extra figure frantic splutterings and chokings, strange cries and
stranger words issued from this tangle; hands dipped lavishly into the
inexhaustible reservoir of tar, with more and more picturesque results.
The caldron had been elevated upon bricks and was not perfectly
balanced; and under a heavy impact of the struggling group it lurched
and went partly over, pouring forth a Stygian tide which formed a deep
pool in the gutter.
It was the fate of Master Roderick Bitts, that exclusive and immaculate
person, to make his appearance upon the chaotic scene at this juncture.
All in the cool of a white “sailor suit,” he turned aside from the path
of duty--which led straight to the house of a maiden aunt--and paused
to hop with joy upon the sidewalk. A repeated epithet continuously half
panted, half squawked, somewhere in the nest of gladiators, caught his
ear, and he took it up excitedly, not knowing why.
“Little gentleman!” shouted Roderick, jumping up and down in childish
glee. “Little gentleman! Little gentleman! Lit----”
A frightful figure tore itself free from the group, encircled this
innocent bystander with a black arm, and hurled him headlong. Full
length and flat on his face went Roderick into the Stygian pool. The
frightful figure was Penrod.
Instantly, the pack flung themselves upon him again, and, carrying
them with him, he went over upon Roderick, who from that instant was as
active a belligerent as any there.
Thus began the Great Tar Fight, the origin of which proved, afterward,
so difficult for parents to trace, owing to the opposing accounts of
the combatants. Marjorie said Penrod began it; Penrod said Mitchy-Mitch
began it; Sam Williams said Georgie Bassett began it; Georgie and
Maurice Levy said Penrod began it; Roderick Bitts, who had not
recognized his first assailant, said Sam Williams began it.
Nobody thought of accusing the barber. But the barber did not begin it;
it was the fly on the barber's nose that began it--though, of course,
something else began the fly. Somehow, we never manage to hang the real
offender.
The end came only with the arrival of Penrod's mother, who had been
having a painful conversation by telephone with Mrs. Jones, the mother
of Marjorie, and came forth to seek an errant son. It is a mystery how
she was able to pick out her own, for by the time she got there his
voice was too hoarse to be recognizable. Mr. Schofield's version of
things was that Penrod was insane. “He's a stark, raving lunatic!”
declared the father, descending to the library from a before-dinner
interview with the outlaw, that evening. “I'd send him to military
school, but I don't believe they'd take him. Do you know WHY he says all
that awfulness happened?”
“When Margaret and I were trying to scrub him,” responded Mrs. Schofield
wearily, “he said 'everybody' had been calling him names.”
“'Names!'” snorted her husband. “'Little gentleman!' THAT'S the vile
epithet they called him! And because of it he wrecks the peace of six
homes!”
“SH! Yes; he told us about it,” said Mrs. Schofield, moaning. “He told
us several hundred times, I should guess, though I didn't count. He's
got it fixed in his head, and we couldn't get it out. All we could do
was to put him in the closet. He'd have gone out again after those boys
if we hadn't. I don't know WHAT to make of him!”
“He's a mystery to ME!” said her husband. “And he refuses to explain
why he objects to being called 'little gentleman.' Says he'd do the same
thing--and worse--if anybody dared to call him that again. He said if
the President of the United States called him that he'd try to whip him.
How long did you have him locked up in the closet?”
“SH!” said Mrs. Schofield warningly. “About two hours; but I don't think
it softened his spirit at all, because when I took him to the barber's
to get his hair clipped again, on account of the tar in it, Sammy
Williams and Maurice Levy were there for the same reason, and they just
WHISPERED 'little gentleman,' so low you could hardly hear them--and
Penrod began fighting with them right before me, and it was really all
the barber and I could do to drag him away from them. The barber was
very kind about it, but Penrod----”
“I tell you he's a lunatic!” Mr. Schofield would have said the same
thing of a Frenchman infuriated by the epithet “camel.” The philosophy
of insult needs expounding.
“SH!” said Mrs. Schofield. “It does seem a kind of frenzy.”
“Why on earth should any sane person mind being called----”
“SH!” said Mrs. Schofield. “It's beyond ME!”
“What are you SH-ing me for?” demanded Mr. Schofield explosively.
“SH!” said Mrs. Schofield. “It's Mr. Kinosling, the new rector of Saint
Joseph's.”
“Where?”
“SH! On the front porch with Margaret; he's going to stay for dinner. I
do hope----”
“Bachelor, isn't he?”
“Yes.”
“OUR old minister was speaking of him the other day,” said Mr.
Schofield, “and he didn't seem so terribly impressed.”
“SH! Yes; about thirty, and of course so superior to most of Margaret's
friends--boys home from college. She thinks she likes young Robert
Williams, I know--but he laughs so much! Of course there isn't any
comparison. Mr. Kinosling talks so intellectually; it's a good thing for
Margaret to hear that kind of thing, for a change and, of course, he's
very spiritual. He seems very much interested in her.” She paused to
muse. “I think Margaret likes him; he's so different, too. It's the
third time he's dropped in this week, and I----”
“Well,” said Mr. Schofield grimly, “if you and Margaret want him to come
again, you'd better not let him see Penrod.”
“But he's asked to see him; he seems interested in meeting all the
family. And Penrod nearly always behaves fairly well at table.”
She paused, and then put to her husband a question referring to his
interview with Penrod upstairs. “Did you--did you--do it?”
“No,” he answered gloomily. “No, I didn't, but----” He was interrupted
by a violent crash of china and metal in the kitchen, a shriek from
Della, and the outrageous voice of Penrod. The well-informed Della,
ill-inspired to set up for a wit, had ventured to address the scion of
the house roguishly as “little gentleman,” and Penrod, by means of the
rapid elevation of his right foot, had removed from her supporting
hands a laden tray. Both parents, started for the kitchen, Mr. Schofield
completing his interrupted sentence on the way.
“But I will, now!”
The rite thus promised was hastily but accurately performed in that
apartment most distant from the front porch; and, twenty minutes later,
Penrod descended to dinner. The Rev. Mr. Kinosling had asked for the
pleasure of meeting him, and it had been decided that the only course
possible was to cover up the scandal for the present, and to offer an
undisturbed and smiling family surface to the gaze of the visitor.
Scorched but not bowed, the smouldering Penrod was led forward for the
social formulae simultaneously with the somewhat bleak departure of
Robert Williams, who took his guitar with him, this time, and went in
forlorn unconsciousness of the powerful forces already set in secret
motion to be his allies.
The punishment just undergone had but made the haughty and unyielding
soul of Penrod more stalwart in revolt; he was unconquered. Every time
the one intolerable insult had been offered him, his resentment had
become the hotter, his vengeance the more instant and furious. And,
still burning with outrage, but upheld by the conviction of right, he
was determined to continue to the last drop of his blood the defense
of his honour, whenever it should be assailed, no matter how mighty or
august the powers that attacked it. In all ways, he was a very sore boy.
During the brief ceremony of presentation, his usually inscrutable
countenance wore an expression interpreted by his father as one of
insane obstinacy, while Mrs. Schofield found it an incentive to inward
prayer. The fine graciousness of Mr. Kinosling, however, was unimpaired
by the glare of virulent suspicion given him by this little brother: Mr.
Kinosling mistook it for a natural curiosity concerning one who might
possibly become, in time, a member of the family. He patted Penrod upon
the head, which was, for many reasons, in no condition to be patted with
any pleasure to the patter. Penrod felt himself in the presence of a new
enemy.
“How do you do, my little lad,” said Mr. Kinosling. “I trust we shall
become fast friends.”
To the ear of his little lad, it seemed he said, “A trost we shall
bick-home fawst frainds.” Mr. Kinosling's pronunciation was, in fact,
slightly precious; and, the little lad, simply mistaking it for some
cryptic form of mockery of himself, assumed a manner and expression
which argued so ill for the proposed friendship that Mrs. Schofield
hastily interposed the suggestion of dinner, and the small procession
went in to the dining-room.
“It has been a delicious day,” said Mr. Kinosling, presently; “warm but
balmy.” With a benevolent smile he addressed Penrod, who sat opposite
him. “I suppose, little gentleman, you have been indulging in the usual
outdoor sports of vacation?”
Penrod laid down his fork and glared, open-mouthed at Mr. Kinosling.
“You'll have another slice of breast of the chicken?” Mr. Schofield
inquired, loudly and quickly.
“A lovely day!” exclaimed Margaret, with equal promptitude and emphasis.
“Lovely, oh, lovely! Lovely!”
“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!” said Mrs. Schofield, and after a
glance at Penrod which confirmed her impression that he intended to
say something, she continued, “Yes, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,
beautiful, beautiful beautiful!”
Penrod closed his mouth and sank back in his chair--and his relatives
took breath.
Mr. Kinosling looked pleased. This responsive family, with its ready
enthusiasm, made the kind of audience he liked. He passed a delicate
white hand gracefully over his tall, pale forehead, and smiled
indulgently.
“Youth relaxes in summer,” he said. “Boyhood is the age of relaxation;
one is playful, light, free, unfettered. One runs and leaps and enjoys
one's self with one's companions. It is good for the little lads to play
with their friends; they jostle, push, and wrestle, and simulate little,
happy struggles with one another in harmless conflict. The young muscles
are toughening. It is good. Boyish chivalry develops, enlarges, expands.
The young learn quickly, intuitively, spontaneously. They perceive the
obligations of noblesse oblige. They begin to comprehend the necessity
of caste and its requirements. They learn what birth means--ah,--that
is, they learn what it means to be well born. They learn courtesy in
their games; they learn politeness, consideration for one another in
their pastimes, amusements, lighter occupations. I make it my pleasure
to join them often, for I sympathize with them in all their wholesome
joys as well as in their little bothers and perplexities. I understand
them, you see; and let me tell you it is no easy matter to understand
the little lads and lassies.” He sent to each listener his beaming
glance, and, permitting it to come to rest upon Penrod, inquired:
“And what do you say to that, little gentleman?”
Mr. Schofield uttered a stentorian cough. “More? You'd better have some
more chicken! More! Do!”
“More chicken!” urged Margaret simultaneously. “Do please! Please! More!
Do! More!”
“Beautiful, beautiful,” began Mrs. Schofield. “Beautiful, beautiful,
beautiful, beautiful----”
It is not known in what light Mr. Kinosling viewed the expression of
Penrod's face. Perhaps he mistook it for awe; perhaps he received
no impression at all of its extraordinary quality. He was a rather
self-engrossed young man, just then engaged in a double occupation, for
he not only talked, but supplied from his own consciousness a critical
though favourable auditor as well, which of course kept him quite busy.
Besides, it is oftener than is expected the case that extremely peculiar
expressions upon the countenances of boys are entirely overlooked,
and suggest nothing to the minds of people staring straight at them.
Certainly Penrod's expression--which, to the perception of his family,
was perfectly horrible--caused not the faintest perturbation in the
breast of Mr. Kinosling.
Mr. Kinosling waived the chicken, and continued to talk. “Yes, I think
I may claim to understand boys,” he said, smiling thoughtfully. “One
has been a boy one's self. Ah, it is not all playtime! I hope our young
scholar here does not overwork himself at his Latin, at his classics,
as I did, so that at the age of eight years I was compelled to wear
glasses. He must be careful not to strain the little eyes at his
scholar's tasks, not to let the little shoulders grow round over his
scholar's desk. Youth is golden; we should keep it golden, bright,
glistening. Youth should frolic, should be sprightly; it should play its
cricket, its tennis, its hand-ball. It should run and leap; it should
laugh, should sing madrigals and glees, carol with the lark, ring out in
chanties, folk-songs, ballads, roundelays----”
He talked on. At any instant Mr. Schofield held himself ready to cough
vehemently and shout, “More chicken,” to drown out Penrod in case the
fatal words again fell from those eloquent lips; and Mrs. Schofield and
Margaret kept themselves prepared at all times to assist him. So passed
a threatening meal, which Mrs. Schofield hurried, by every means with
decency, to its conclusion. She felt that somehow they would all be
safer out in the dark of the front porch, and led the way thither as
soon as possible.
“No cigar, I thank you.” Mr. Kinosling, establishing himself in a wicker
chair beside Margaret, waved away her father's proffer. “I do not smoke.
I have never tasted tobacco in any form.” Mrs. Schofield was confirmed
in her opinion that this would be an ideal son-in-law. Mr. Schofield was
not so sure.
“No,” said Mr. Kinosling. “No tobacco for me. No cigar, no pipe, no
cigarette, no cheroot. For me, a book--a volume of poems, perhaps.
Verses, rhymes, lines metrical and cadenced--those are my dissipation.
Tennyson by preference: 'Maud,' or 'Idylls of the King'--poetry of the
sound Victorian days; there is none later. Or Longfellow will rest me
in a tired hour. Yes; for me, a book, a volume in the hand, held lightly
between the fingers.”
Mr. Kinosling looked pleasantly at his fingers as he spoke, waving his
hand in a curving gesture which brought it into the light of a window
faintly illumined from the interior of the house. Then he passed those
graceful fingers over his hair, and turned toward Penrod, who was
perched upon the railing in a dark corner.
“The evening is touched with a slight coolness,” said Mr. Kinosling.
“Perhaps I may request the little gentleman----”
“B'gr-r-RUFF!” coughed Mr. Schofield. “You'd better change your mind
about a cigar.”
“No, I thank you. I was about to request the lit----”
“DO try one,” Margaret urged. “I'm sure papa's are nice ones. Do
try----”
“No, I thank you. I remarked a slight coolness in the air, and my hat is
in the hallway. I was about to request----”
“I'll get it for you,” said Penrod suddenly.
“If you will be so good,” said Mr. Kinosling. “It is a black bowler hat,
little gentleman, and placed upon a table in the hall.”
“I know where it is.” Penrod entered the door, and a feeling of relief,
mutually experienced, carried from one to another of his three relatives
their interchanged congratulations that he had recovered his sanity.
“'The day is done, and the darkness,'” began Mr. Kinosling--and recited
that poem entire. He followed it with “The Children's Hour,” and after a
pause, at the close, to allow his listeners time for a little reflection
upon his rendition, he passed his handagain over his head, and called,
in the direction of the doorway:
“I believe I will take my hat now, little gentleman.”
“Here it is,” said Penrod, unexpectedly climbing over the porch railing,
in the other direction. His mother and father and Margaret had supposed
him to be standing in the hallway out of deference, and because he
thought it tactful not to interrupt the recitations. All of them
remembered, later, that this supposed thoughtfulness on his part struck
them as unnatural.
“Very good, little gentleman!” said Mr. Kinosling, and being somewhat
chilled, placed the hat firmly upon his head, pulling it down as far
as it would go. It had a pleasant warmth, which he noticed at once. The
next instant, he noticed something else, a peculiar sensation of the
scalp--a sensation which he was quite unable to define. He lifted his
hand to take the hat off, and entered upon a strange experience: his hat
seemed to have decided to remain where it was.
“Do you like Tennyson as much as Longfellow, Mr. Kinosling?” inquired
Margaret.
“I--ah--I cannot say,” he returned absently. “I--ah--each has his
own--ugh! flavour and savour, each his--ah--ah----”
Struck by a strangeness in his tone, she peered at him curiously through
the dusk. His outlines were indistinct, but she made out that his arms
were, uplifted in a singular gesture. He seemed to be wrenching at his
head.
“Is--is anything the matter?” she asked anxiously. “Mr. Kinosling, are
you ill?”
“Not at--ugh!--all,” he replied, in the same odd tone. “I--ah--I
believe--UGH!”
He dropped his hands from his hat, and rose. His manner was
slightly agitated. “I fear I may have taken a trifling--ah--cold.
I should--ah--perhaps be--ah--better at home. I will--ah--say
good-night.”
At the steps, he instinctively lifted his hand to remove his hat,
but did not do so, and, saying “Goodnight,” again in a frigid voice,
departed with visible stiffness from that house, to return no more.
“Well, of all----!” cried Mrs. Schofield, astounded. “What was the
matter? He just went--like that!” She made a flurried gesture. “In
heaven's name, Margaret, what DID you say to him?”
“_I_!” exclaimed Margaret indignantly. “Nothing! He just WENT!”
“Why, he didn't even take off his hat when he said good-night!” said
Mrs. Schofield.
Margaret, who had crossed to the doorway, caught the ghost of a whisper
behind her, where stood Penrod.
“YOU BET HE DIDN'T!”
He knew not that he was overheard.
A frightful suspicion flashed through Margaret's mind--a suspicion that
Mr. Kinosling's hat would have to be either boiled off or shaved off.
With growing horror she recalled Penrod's long absence when he went to
bring the hat.
“Penrod,” she cried, “let me see your hands!”
She had toiled at those hands herself late that afternoon, nearly
scalding her own, but at last achieving a lily purity.
“Let me see your hands!”
She seized them.
Again they were tarred!