"Penrod," said his mother, "what did you do with that loaf of bread
Della says you took from the table?"
"Ma'am? _What_ loaf o' bread?"
"I believe I can't let you go outdoors this afternoon," Mrs. Schofield
said severely. "If you were hungry, you know perfectly well all you had
to do was to----"
"But I wasn't hungry; I----"
"You can explain later," said Mrs. Schofield. "You'll have all
afternoon."
Penrod's heart grew cold.
"I _can't_ stay in," he protested. "I've asked Sam Williams to come
over."
"I'll telephone Mrs. Williams."
"Mamma!" Penrod's voice became agonized. "I _had_ to give that bread to
a--to a poor ole man. He was starving and so were his children and his
wife. They were all just _starving_--and they couldn't wait while I
took time to come and ask you, mamma. I _got_ to go outdoors this
afternoon. I _got_ to! Sam's----"
She relented.
In the carriage-house, half an hour later, Penrod gave an account of
the episode.
"Where'd we been, I'd just like to know," he concluded, "if I hadn't
got out here this afternoon?"
"Well, I guess I could managed him all right," said Sam. "I was in the
passageway, a minute ago, takin' a look at him. He's standin' up agin.
I expect he wants more to eat."
"Well, we got to fix about that," said Penrod. "But what I mean--if I'd
had to stay in the house, where would we been about the most important
thing in the whole biz'nuss?"
"What you talkin' about?"
"Well, why can't you wait till I tell you?" Penrod's tone had become
peevish. For that matter, so had Sam's; they were developing one of the
little differences, or quarrels, that composed the very texture of
their friendship.
"Well, why don't you tell me, then?"
"Well, how can I?" Penrod demanded. "You keep talkin' every minute."
"I'm not talkin' _now_, am I?" Sam protested. "You can tell me _now_,
can't you? I'm not talk----"
"You are, too!" shouted Penrod. "You talk all the time! You----"
He was interrupted by Whitey's peculiar cough. Both boys jumped and
forgot their argument.
"He means he wants some more to eat, I bet," said Sam.
"Well, if he does, he's got to wait," Penrod declared. "We got to get
the most important thing of all fixed up first."
"What's that, Penrod?"
"The reward," said Penrod mildly. "That's what I was tryin' to tell you
about, Sam, if you'd ever give me half a chance."
"Well, I _did_ give you a chance. I kept _tellin'_ you to tell me,
but----"
"You never! You kept sayin'----"
They renewed this discussion, protracting it indefinitely; but as each
persisted in clinging to his own interpretation of the facts, the
question still remains unsettled. It was abandoned, or rather, it
merged into another during the later stages of the debate, this other
being concerned with which of the debaters had the least "sense." Each
made the plain statement that if he were more deficient than his
opponent in that regard, self-destruction would be his only refuge.
Each declared that he would "rather die than be talked to death"; and
then, as the two approached a point bluntly recriminative, Whitey
coughed again, whereupon they were miraculously silent, and went into
the passageway in a perfectly amiable manner.
"I got to have a good look at him, for once," said Penrod, as he stared
frowningly at Whitey. "We got to fix up about that reward."
"I want to take a good ole look at him myself," said Sam.
After supplying Whitey with another bucket of water, they returned to
the carriage-house and seated themselves thoughtfully. In truth, they
were something a shade more than thoughtful; the adventure to which
they had committed themselves was beginning to be a little
overpowering. If Whitey had been a dog, a goat, a fowl, or even a stray
calf, they would have felt equal to him; but now that the earlier glow
of their wild daring had disappeared, vague apprehensions stirred.
Their "good look" at Whitey had not reassured them--he seemed large,
Gothic,[36-1] and unusual.
Whisperings within them began to urge that for boys to undertake an
enterprise connected with so huge an animal as an actual horse was
perilous. Beneath the surface of their musings, dim but ominous
prophecies moved; both boys began to have the feeling that, somehow,
this affair was going to get beyond them and that they would be in
heavy trouble before it was over--they knew not why. They knew why no
more than they knew why they felt it imperative to keep the fact of
Whitey's presence in the stable a secret from their respective
families, but they did begin to realize that keeping a secret of that
size was going to be attended with some difficulty. In brief, their
sensations were becoming comparable to those of the man who stole a
house.
Nevertheless, after a short period given to unspoken misgivings, they
returned to the subject of the reward. The money-value of bay horses,
as compared to white, was again discussed, and each announced his
certainty that nothing less than "a good ole hundred dollars" would be
offered for the return of Whitey.
But immediately after so speaking they fell into another silence, due
to sinking feelings. They had spoken loudly and confidently, and yet
they knew, somehow, that such things were not to be. According to their
knowledge, it was perfectly reasonable to suppose that they would
receive this fortune, but they frightened themselves in speaking of it;
they knew that they _could_ not have a hundred dollars for their
own. An oppression, as from something awful and criminal, descended
upon them at intervals.
Presently, however, they were warmed to a little cheerfulness again by
Penrod's suggestion that they should put a notice in the paper. Neither
of them had the slightest idea how to get it there, but such details as
that were beyond the horizon; they occupied themselves with the
question of what their advertisement ought to "say." Finding that they
differed irreconcilably, Penrod went to a cache of his in the
sawdust-box and brought two pencils and a supply of paper. He gave one
of the pencils and several sheets to Sam; then both boys bent
themselves in silence to the labor of practical composition. Penrod
produced the briefer paragraph. (See Fig. I.) Sam's was more ample.
(See Fig. II.)
[Illustration: FIG I]
[Illustration: FIG II]
Neither Sam nor Penrod showed any interest in what the other had
written, but both felt that something praiseworthy had been
accomplished. Penrod exhaled a sigh, as of relief, and, in a manner he
had observed his father use sometimes, he said:
"Thank goodness, _that's_ off my mind, anyway!"
"What we goin' do next, Penrod?" Sam asked deferentially, the borrowed
manner having some effect upon him.
"I don't know what _you're_ goin' to do," Penrod returned, picking up
the old cigar box which had contained the paper and pencils. _"I'm_
goin' to put mine in here, so's it'll come in handy when I haf to get
at it."
"Well, I guess I'll keep mine there, too," said Sam. Thereupon he
deposited his scribbled slip beside Penrod's in the cigar box, and the
box was solemnly returned to the secret place whence it had been taken.
"There, _that's_ 'tended to!" said Sam, and, unconsciously imitating
his friend's imitation, he gave forth audibly a breath of satisfaction
and relief. Both boys felt that the financial side of their great
affair had been conscientiously looked to, that the question of the
reward was settled, and that everything was proceeding in a
businesslike manner. Therefore, they were able to turn their attention
to another matter.
This was the question of Whitey's next meal. After their exploits of
the morning, and the consequent imperilment of Penrod, they decided
that nothing more was to be done in apples, vegetables, or bread; it
was evident that Whitey must be fed from the bosom of nature.
"We couldn't pull enough o' that frostbit ole grass in the yard to feed
him," Penrod said gloomily. "We could work a week and not get enough to
make him swaller more'n about twice. All we got this morning, he blew
most of it away. He'd try to scoop it in toward his teeth with his lip,
and then he'd haf to kind of blow out his breath, and after that all
the grass that'd be left was just some wet pieces stickin' to the
outsides of his face. Well, and you know how he acted about that maple
branch. We can't trust him with branches."
Sam jumped up.
"_I_ know!" he cried. "There's lots of leaves left on the branches. We
can give them to him."
"I just said----"
"I don't mean the branches," Sam explained. "We'll leave the branches
on the trees, but just pull the leaves off the branches and put 'em in
the bucket and feed 'em to him out the bucket."
Penrod thought this plan worth trying, and for three-quarters of an
hour the two boys were busy with the lower branches of various trees in
the yard. Thus they managed to supply Whitey with a fair quantity of
wet leaves, which he ate in a perfunctory way, displaying little of his
earlier enthusiasm. And the work of his purveyors might have been more
tedious if it had been less damp, for a boy is seldom bored by anything
that involves his staying-out in the rain without protection. The
drizzle had thickened; the leaves were heavy with water, and at every
jerk the branches sent fat drops over the two collectors. They attained
a noteworthy state of sogginess.
Finally, they were brought to the attention of the authorities indoors,
and Della appeared upon the back porch.
"Musther Penrod," she called, "y'r mamma says ye'll c'm in the house
this minute an' change y'r shoes an' stockin's an' everythun' else ye
got on! D'ye hear me?"
Penrod, taken by surprise and unpleasantly alarmed, darted away from
the tree he was depleting and ran for the stable.
"You tell her I'm dry as toast!" he shouted over his shoulder.
Della withdrew, wearing the air of a person gratuitously insulted; and
a moment later she issued from the kitchen, carrying an umbrella. She
opened it and walked resolutely to the stable.
"She says I'm to bring ye in the house," said Della, "an' I'm goin' to
bring ye!"
Sam had joined Penrod in the carriage-house, and, with the beginnings
of an unnamed terror, the two beheld this grim advance. But they did
not stay for its culmination. Without a word to each other they
hurriedly tiptoed up the stairs to the gloomy loft, and there they
paused, listening.
They heard Della's steps upon the carriage-house floor.
"Ah, there's plenty places t'hide in," they heard her say; "but I'll
show ye! She tole me to bring ye, and I'm----"
She was interrupted by a peculiar sound--loud, chilling, dismal, and
unmistakably not of human origin. The boys knew it for Whitey's cough,
but Della had not their experience. A smothered shriek reached their
ears; there was a scurrying noise, and then, with horror, they heard
Della's footsteps in the passageway that ran by Whitey's manger.
Immediately there came a louder shriek, and even in the anguish of
knowing their secret discovered, they were shocked to hear distinctly
the words, "O Lard in hivvin!" in the well-known voice of Della. She
shrieked again, and they heard the rush of her footfalls across the
carriage-house floor. Wild words came from the outer air, and the
kitchen door slammed violently. It was all over. She had gone to
"tell."
Penrod and Sam plunged down the stairs and out of the stable. They
climbed the back fence and fled up the alley. They turned into Sam's
yard, and, without consultation, headed for the cellar doors, nor
paused till they found themselves in the farthest, darkest, and
gloomiest recess of the cellar. There, perspiring, stricken with fear,
they sank down upon the earthen floor, with their moist backs against
the stone wall.
Thus with boys. The vague apprehensions that had been creeping upon
Penrod and Sam all afternoon had become monstrous; the unknown was
before them. How great their crime would turn out to be (now that it
was in the hands of grown people), they did not know, but, since it
concerned a horse, it would undoubtedly be considered of terrible
dimensions.
Their plans for a reward, and all the things that had seemed both
innocent and practical in the morning, now staggered their minds as
manifestations of criminal folly. A new and terrible light seemed to
play upon the day's exploits; they had chased a horse belonging to
strangers, and it would be said that they deliberately drove him into
the stable and there concealed him. They had, in truth, virtually
stolen him, and they had stolen food for him. The waning light through
the small window above them warned Penrod that his inroads upon the
vegetables in his own cellar must soon be discovered. Della, that
Nemesis,[43-1] would seek them in order to prepare them for dinner, and
she would find them not. But she would recall his excursion to the
cellar, for she had seen him when he came up; and also the truth would
be known concerning the loaf of bread. Altogether, Penrod felt that his
case was worse than Sam's--until Sam offered a suggestion which roused
such horrible possibilitites concerning the principal item of their
offense that all thought of the smaller indictments disappeared.
"Listen, Penrod," Sam quavered: "What--what if that--what if that ole
horse maybe b'longed to a--policeman!" Sam's imagination was not of the
comforting kind. "What'd they--do to us, Penrod, if it turned out he
was some policeman's horse?"
Penrod was able only to shake his head. He did not reply in words, but
both boys thenceforth considered it almost inevitable that Whitey _had_
belonged to a policeman, and in their sense of so ultimate a disaster,
they ceased for a time to brood upon what their parents would probably
do to them. The penalty for stealing a policeman's horse would be only
a step short of capital, they were sure. They would not be hanged; but
vague, looming sketches of something called the penitentiary began to
flicker before them.
It grew darker in the cellar, so that finally they could not see each
other.
"I guess they're huntin' for us by now," Sam said huskily. "I don't--I
don't like it much down here, Penrod."
Penrod's hoarse whisper came from the profound gloom:
"Well, who ever said you did?"
"Well----" Sam paused; then he said plaintively, "I wish we'd never
_seen_ that dern ole horse."
"It was every bit his fault," said Penrod. "_We_ didn't do anything. If
he hadn't come stickin' his ole head in our stable, it'd never happened
at all. Ole fool!" He rose. "I'm goin' to get out of here; I guess I've
stood about enough for one day."
"Where--where you goin', Penrod? You aren't goin' _home_, are you?"
"No; I'm not! What do you take me for? You think I'm crazy?"
"Well, where _can_ you go?"
How far Penrod's desperation actually would have led him is doubtful,
but he made this statement:
"I don't know where _you're_ goin', but _I'm_ goin' to walk straight
out in the country till I come to a farm-house and say my name's George
and live there!"
"I'll do it, too," Sam whispered eagerly. "I'll say my name's Henry."
"Well, we better get started," said the executive Penrod. "We got to
get away from here, anyway."
But when they came to ascend the steps leading to the "outside doors,"
they found that those doors had been closed and locked for the night.
"It's no use," Sam lamented, "and we can't bust 'em, cause I tried to,
once before. Fanny always locks 'em about five o'clock--I forgot. We
got to go up the stairway and try to sneak out through the house."
They tiptoed back, and up the inner stairs. They paused at the top,
then breathlessly stepped out into a hall which was entirely dark. Sam
touched Penrod's sleeve in warning, and bent to listen at a door.
Immediately that door opened, revealing the bright library, where sat
Penrod's mother and Sam's father.
It was Sam's mother who had opened the door.
"Come into the library, boys," she said. "Mrs. Schofield is just
telling us about it."
And as the two comrades moved dumbly into the lighted room, Penrod's
mother rose, and, taking him by the shoulder, urged him close to the
fire.
"You stand there and try to dry off a little, while I finish telling
Mr. and Mrs. Williams about you and Sam," she said. "You'd better make
Sam keep near the fire, too, Mrs. Williams, because they both got
wringing wet. Think of their running off just when most people would
have wanted to stay! Well, I'll go on with the story, then. Della told
me all about it, and what the cook next door said _she'd_ seen, how
they'd been trying to pull grass and leaves for the poor old thing all
day--and all about the apples they carried from _your_ cellar, and
getting wet and working in the rain as hard as they could--and they'd
given him a loaf of bread! Shame on you, Penrod!" She paused to laugh,
but there was a little moisture round her eyes, even before she
laughed. "And they'd fed him on potatoes and lettuce and cabbage and
turnips out of _our_ cellar! And I wish you'd see the sawdust bed they
made for him! Well, when I'd telephoned, and the Humane Society man got
there, he said it was the most touching thing he ever knew. It seems he
_knew_ this horse, and had been looking for him. He said ninety-nine
boys out of a hundred would have chased the poor old thing away, and he
was going to see to it that this case didn't go unnoticed, because the
local branch of the society gives little silver medals for special acts
like this. And the last thing he said before he led the poor old horse
away was that he was sure Penrod and Sam each would be awarded one at
the meeting of the society next Thursday night."
... On the following Saturday morning a yodel sounded from the sunny
sidewalk in front of the Schofields' house, and Penrod, issuing forth,
beheld the familiar figure of Samuel Williams in waiting.
Upon Sam's breast there glittered a round bit of silver suspended by a
white ribbon from a bar of the same metal. Upon the breast of Penrod
was a decoration precisely similar.
"'Lo, Penrod," said Sam. "What you goin' to do?"
"Nothin'."
"I got mine on," said Sam.
"I have, too," said Penrod. "I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for
mine."
Each glanced pleasantly at the other's medal. They faced each other
without shame. Neither had the slightest sense of hypocrisy either in
himself or in his comrade. On the contrary!
Penrod's eyes went from Sam's medal back to his own; thence they
wandered, with perhaps a little disappointment, to the lifeless street
and to the empty yards and spectatorless windows of the neighborhood.
Then he looked southward toward the busy heart of the town, where
multitudes were.
"Let's go down and see what time it is by the court-house clock," said
Penrod.