“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,” Mrs. Schofield said. “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,” Sam said. “I was in the
passageway, a minute ago, takin' a look at him. He's standin' up again.
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!” Penrod shouted. “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,” Penrod said, 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,” Sam said.
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 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 hunderd 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 his cache 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
labour of practical composition. Penrod produced the briefer
paragraph. (See Fig. I.) Sam's was more ample. (See Fig. II.)
------------------[Transcribed from handwritten illustration for Project
Gutenberg:] FIG. I. Reward. White horse in Schofields ally finders got
him in Schofields stable and will let him taken away by by (crossed out:
pay) paying for good food he has aten while (crossed out: wat w) while
(crossed out: wat) waiting and Reward of (crossed out: $100 $20 $15 $5)
$10.
FIG II. FOND Horse on Saturday morning owner can get him by (crossed
through word, unreadable) replying at stable bhind Mr. Schofield.
You will have to proof he is your horse he is whit with hind of brown
(crossed out: spec) speks and worout (crossed out: tail) tale, he is
geting good care and food, reword (crossed out: $100 $20) sevntyfive
cents to each one or we will keep him lokked up.----------------
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 cigarbox that 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,” Sam said. Thereupon he
deposited his scribbled slip beside Penrod's in the cigarbox, and the
box was solemnly returned to the secret place whence it had been taken.
“There, THAT'S 'tended to!” Sam said, 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 of 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, 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 that roused such
horrible possibilities 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 you take me for? You think I'm crazy?”
“Well, where CAN we 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 farmhouse 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 that 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 about 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 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 a yodel sounded from the sunny sidewalk
in front of the Schofields' house, and Penrod, issuing forth, beheld the
familiar figure of Samuel Williams 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 are you goin' to do?”
“Nothin'”
“I got mine on,” said Sam.
“I have, too,” said Penrod. “I wouldn't take a hunderd dollars for
mine.”
“I wouldn't take two hunderd for mine,” said Sam.
Each glanced pleasantly at the other's medal. They faced each other
without shame. Neither had the slightest sense of hypocrisy 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 neighbourhood.
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.