PENROD SCHOFIELD, having been “kept-in” for the unjust period of twenty
minutes after school, emerged to a deserted street. That is, the street
was deserted so far as Penrod was concerned. Here and there people were
to be seen upon the sidewalks, but they were adults, and they and the
shade trees had about the same quality of significance in Penrod's
consciousness. Usually he saw grown people in the mass, which is to say,
they were virtually invisible to him, though exceptions must be taken in
favour of policemen, firemen, street-car conductors, motormen, and all
other men in any sort of uniform or regalia. But this afternoon none
of these met the roving eye, and Penrod set out upon his homeward way
wholly dependent upon his own resources.
To one of Penrod's inner texture, a mere unadorned walk from one
point to another was intolerable, and he had not gone a block without
achieving some slight remedy for the tameness of life. An electric-light
pole at the corner, invested with powers of observation, might have been
surprised to find itself suddenly enacting a role of dubious honour in
improvised melodrama. Penrod, approaching, gave the pole a look of sharp
suspicion, then one of conviction; slapped it lightly and contemptuously
with his open hand; passed on a few paces, but turned abruptly, and,
pointing his right forefinger, uttered the symbolic word, “Bing!”
The plot was somewhat indefinite; yet nothing is more certain than that
the electric-light pole had first attempted something against him,
then growing bitter when slapped, and stealing after him to take him
treacherously in the back, had got itself shot through and through by
one too old in such warfare to be caught off his guard.
Leaving the body to lie where it was, he placed the smoking pistol in
a holster at his saddlebow--he had decided that he was mounted--and
proceeded up the street. At intervals he indulged himself in other
encounters, reining in at first suspicion of ambush with a muttered,
“Whoa, Charlie!” or “Whoa, Mike!” or even “Whoa, Washington!” for
preoccupation with the enemy outweighed attention to the details of
theatrical consistency, though the steed's varying names were at least
harmoniously masculine, since a boy, in these, creative moments, never
rides a mare. And having brought Charlie or Mike or Washington to
a standstill, Penrod would draw the sure weapon from its holster
and--“Bing! Bing! Bing!”--let them have it.
It is not to be understood that this was a noisy performance, or even an
obvious one. It attracted no attention from any pedestrian, and it
was to be perceived only that a boy was proceeding up the street at a
somewhat irregular gait. Three or four years earlier, when Penrod was
seven or eight, he would have shouted “Bing!” at the top of his voice;
he would have galloped openly; all the world might have seen that he
bestrode a charger. But a change had come upon him with advancing years.
Although the grown people in sight were indeed to him as walking trees,
his dramas were accomplished principally by suggestion and symbol.
His “Whoas” and “Bings” were delivered in a husky whisper, and his
equestrianism was established by action mostly of the mind, the
accompanying artistry of the feet being unintelligible to the passerby.
And yet, though he concealed from observation the stirring little scenes
he thus enacted, a love of realism was increasing within him. Early
childhood is not fastidious about the accessories of its drama--a cane
is vividly a gun which may instantly, as vividly, become a horse; but at
Penrod's time of life the lath sword is no longer satisfactory. Indeed,
he now had a vague sense that weapons of wood were unworthy to the point
of being contemptible and ridiculous, and he employed them only when
he was alone and unseen. For months a yearning had grown more and more
poignant in his vitals, and this yearning was symbolized by one of his
most profound secrets. In the inner pocket of his jacket, he carried a
bit of wood whittled into the distant likeness of a pistol, but not even
Sam Williams had seen it. The wooden pistol never knew the light of day,
save when Penrod was in solitude; and yet it never left his side
except at night, when it was placed under his pillow. Still, it did not
satisfy; it was but the token of his yearning and his dream. With all
his might and main Penrod longed for one thing beyond all others. He
wanted a Real Pistol!
That was natural. Pictures of real pistols being used to magnificently
romantic effect were upon almost all the billboards in town, the year
round, and as for the “movie” shows, they could not have lived an hour
unpistoled. In the drug store, where Penrod bought his candy and soda
when he was in funds, he would linger to turn the pages of periodicals
whose illustrations were fascinatingly pistolic. Some of the magazines
upon the very library table at home were sprinkled with pictures of
people (usually in evening clothes) pointing pistols at other people.
Nay, the Library Board of the town had emitted a “Selected List of
Fifteen Books for Boys,” and Penrod had read fourteen of them with
pleasure, but as the fifteenth contained no weapons in the earlier
chapters and held forth little prospect of any shooting at all, he
abandoned it halfway, and read the most sanguinary of the other fourteen
over again. So, the daily food of his imagination being gun, what wonder
that he thirsted for the Real!
He passed from the sidewalk into his own yard, with a subdued “Bing!”
inflicted upon the stolid person of a gatepost, and, entering the house
through the kitchen, ceased to bing for a time. However, driven back
from the fore part of the house by a dismal sound of callers, he
returned to the kitchen and sat down.
“Della,” he said to the cook, “do you know what I'd do if you was a
crook and I had my ottomatic with me?”
Della was industrious and preoccupied. “If I was a cook!” she repeated
ignorantly, and with no cordiality. “Well, I AM a cook. I'm a-cookin'
right now. Either g'wan in the house where y'b'long, or git out in th'
yard!”
Penrod chose the latter, and betook himself slowly to the back fence,
where he was greeted in a boisterous manner by his wistful little old
dog, Duke, returning from some affair of his own in the alley.
“Get down!” said Penrod coldly, and bestowed a spiritless “Bing!” upon
him.
At this moment a shout was heard from the alley, “Yay, Penrod!” and the
sandy head of comrade Sam Williams appeared above the fence.
“Come on over,” said Penrod.
As Sam obediently climbed the fence, the little old dog, Duke, moved
slowly away, but presently, glancing back over his shoulder and seeing
the two boys standing together, he broke into a trot and disappeared
round a corner of the house. He was a dog of long and enlightening
experience; and he made it clear that the conjunction of Penrod and Sam
portended events which, from his point of view, might be unfortunate.
Duke had a forgiving disposition, but he also possessed a melancholy
wisdom. In the company of either Penrod or Sam, alone, affection often
caused him to linger, albeit with a little pessimism, but when he saw
them together, he invariably withdrew in as unobtrusive a manner as
haste would allow.
“What you doin'?” Sam asked.
“Nothin'. What you?”
“I'll show you if you'll come over to our house,” said Sam, who was
wearing an important and secretive expression.
“What for?” Penrod showed little interest.
“Well, I said I'd show you if you came on over, didn't I?”
“But you haven't got anything I haven't got,” said Penrod indifferently.
“I know everything that's in your yard and in your stable, and there
isn't a thing--”
“I didn't say it was in the yard or in the stable, did I?”
“Well, there ain't anything in your house,” returned Penrod frankly,
“that I'd walk two feet to look at--not a thing!”
“Oh, no!” Sam assumed mockery. “Oh, no, you wouldn't! You know what it
is, don't you? Yes, you do!” Penrod's curiosity stirred somewhat. “Well,
all right,” he said, “I got nothin' to do. I just as soon go. What is
it?”
“You wait and see,” said Sam, as they climbed the fence. “I bet YOUR ole
eyes'll open pretty far in about a minute or so!”
“I bet they don't. It takes a good deal to get me excited, unless it's
sumpthing mighty--”
“You'll see!” Sam promised.
He opened an alley, gate and stepped into his own yard in a manner
signalling caution--though the exploit, thus far, certainly required
none and Penrod began to be impressed and hopeful. They entered the
house, silently, encountering no one, and Sam led the way upstairs,
tiptoeing, implying unusual and increasing peril. Turning, in the upper
hall, they went into Sam's father's bedroom, and Sam closed the door
with a caution so genuine that already Penrod's eyes began to fulfil his
host's prediction. Adventures in another boy's house are trying to the
nerves; and another boy's father's bedroom, when invaded, has a violated
sanctity that is almost appalling. Penrod felt that something was about
to happen--something much more important than he had anticipated.
Sam tiptoed across the room to a chest of drawers, and, kneeling,
carefully pulled out the lowest drawer until the surface of its
contents--Mr. Williams' winter underwear--lay exposed. Then he fumbled
beneath the garments and drew forth a large object, displaying it
triumphantly to the satisfactorily dumfounded Penrod.
It was a blue-steel Colt's revolver, of the heaviest pattern made in the
Seventies. Mr. Williams had inherited it from Sam's grandfather (a small
man, a deacon, and dyspeptic) and it was larger and more horrible than
any revolver either of the boys had ever seen in any picture, moving or
stationary. Moreover, greenish bullets of great size were to be seen
in the chambers of the cylinder, suggesting massacre rather than mere
murder. This revolver was Real and it was Loaded!