How long he was “kept in” after school that afternoon is not a matter of
record; but it was long. Before he finally appeared upon the street, he
had composed an ample letter on a subject of general interest, namely
“School Life”, under the supervision of Miss Spencer. He had also
received some scorching admonitions in respect to honourable behaviour
regarding other people's letters; and Margaret's had been returned to
him with severe instructions to bear it straight to the original owner
accompanied by full confession and apology. As a measure of insurance
that these things be done, Miss Spence stated definitely her intention
to hold a conversation by telephone with Margaret that evening.
Altogether, the day had been unusually awful, even for Wednesday, and
Penrod left the school-house with the heart of an anarchist throbbing
in his hot bosom. It were more accurate, indeed, to liken him to the
anarchist's characteristic weapon; for as Penrod came out to the street
he was, in all inward respects, a bomb, loaded and ticking.
He walked moodily, with a visible aspect of soreness. A murmurous
sound was thick about his head, wherefore it is to be surmised that he
communed with his familiar, and one vehement, oft-repeated phrase beat
like a tocsin of revolt upon the air: “Daw-gone 'em!”
He meant everybody--the universe.
Particularly included, evidently, was a sparrow, offensively cheerful
upon a lamp-post. This self-centred little bird allowed a pebble to pass
overhead and remained unconcerned, but, a moment later, feeling a jar
beneath his feet, and hearing the tinkle of falling glass, he decided
to leave. Similarly, and at the same instant, Penrod made the same
decision, and the sparrow in flight took note of a boy likewise in
flight.
The boy disappeared into the nearest alley and emerged therefrom,
breathless, in the peaceful vicinity of his own home. He entered the
house, clumped upstairs and down, discovered Margaret reading a book in
the library, and flung the accursed letter toward her with loathing.
“You can take the old thing,” he said bitterly. “_I_ don't want it!”
And before she was able to reply, he was out of the room. The next
moment he was out of the house.
“Daw-GONE 'em!” he said.
And then, across the street, his soured eye fell upon his true comrade
and best friend leaning against a picket fence and holding desultory
converse with Mabel Rorebeck, an attractive member of the Friday
Afternoon Dancing Class, that hated organization of which Sam and Penrod
were both members. Mabel was a shy little girl; but Penrod had a vague
understanding that Sam considered her two brown pig-tails beautiful.
Howbeit, Sam had never told his love; he was, in fact, sensitive about
it. This meeting with the lady was by chance, and, although it afforded
exquisite moments, his heart was beating in an unaccustomed manner, and
he was suffering from embarrassment, being at a loss, also, for subjects
of conversation. It is, indeed, no easy matter to chat easily with a
person, however lovely and beloved, who keeps her face turned the other
way, maintains one foot in rapid and continuous motion through an arc
seemingly perilous to her equilibrium, and confines her responses, both
affirmative and negative, to “Uh-huh.”
Altogether, Sam was sufficiently nervous without any help from Penrod,
and it was with pure horror that he heard his own name and Mabel's
shrieked upon the ambient air with viperish insinuation.
“Sam-my and May-bul! OH, oh!”
Sam started violently. Mabel ceased to swing her foot, and both,
encarnadined, looked up and down and everywhere for the invisible but
well-known owner of that voice. It came again, in taunting mockery:
“Sammy's mad, and I am glad,
And I know what will please him:
A bottle o' wine to make him shine,
And Mabel Rorebeck to squeeze him!”
“Fresh ole thing!” said Miss Rorebeck, becoming articulate. And
unreasonably including Sam in her indignation, she tossed her head at
him with an unmistakable effect of scorn. She began to walk away.
“Well, Mabel,” Sam said plaintively, following, “it ain't MY fault. _I_
didn't do anything. It's Penrod.”
“I don't care,” she began pettishly, when the viperish voice was again
lifted:
“Oh, oh, oh! Who's your beau? Guess _I_ know: Mabel and Sammy, oh, oh,
oh! _I_ caught you!”
Then Mabel did one of those things that eternally perplex the slower
sex. She deliberately made a face, not at the tree behind which Penrod
was lurking, but at the innocent and heart-wrung Sam. “You needn't come
limpin' after me, Sam Williams!” she said, though Sam was approaching
upon two perfectly sound legs. And then she ran away at the top of her
speed.
“Run, rigger, run!” Penrod began inexcusably. But Sam cut the
persecutions short at this point. Stung to fury, he charged upon the
sheltering tree in the Schofields' yard.
Ordinarily, at such a juncture, Penrod would have fled, keeping his own
temper and increasing the heat of his pursuer's by back-flung jeers. But
this was Wednesday, and he was in no mood to run from Sam. He stepped
away from the tree, awaiting the onset.
“Well, what you goin' to do so much?” he said.
Sam did not pause to proffer the desired information. “'Tcha got'ny
SENSE!” was the total extent of his vocal preliminaries before flinging
himself headlong upon the taunter; and the two boys went to the ground
together. Embracing, they rolled, they pommelled, they hammered, they
kicked. Alas, this was a fight.
They rose, flailing a while, then renewed their embrace, and, grunting,
bestowed themselves anew upon our ever too receptive Mother Earth. Once
more upon their feet, they beset each other sorely, dealing many
great blows, ofttimes upon the air, but with sufficient frequency upon
resentful flesh. Tears were jolted to the rims of eyes, but technically
they did not weep. “Got'ny sense,” was repeated chokingly many, many
times; also, “Dern ole fool!” and, “I'll SHOW you!”
The peacemaker who appeared upon the animated scene was Penrod's
great-uncle Slocum. This elderly relative had come to call upon Mrs.
Schofield, and he was well upon his way to the front door when the
mutterings of war among some shrubberies near the fence caused him to
deflect his course in benevolent agitation.
“Boys! Boys! Shame, boys!” he said; but, as the originality of these
expressions did not prove striking enough to attract any great
attention from the combatants, he felt obliged to assume a share in
the proceedings. It was a share entailing greater activity than he had
anticipated, and, before he managed to separate the former friends,
he intercepted bodily an amount of violence to which he was wholly
unaccustomed. Additionally, his attire was disarranged; his hat was no
longer upon his head, and his temper was in a bad way. In fact, as his
hat flew off, he made use of words that under less extreme circumstances
would have caused both boys to feel a much profounder interest than they
did in great-uncle Slocum.
“I'll GET you!” Sam babbled. “Don't you ever dare to speak to me again,
Penrod Schofield, long as you live, or I'll whip you worse'n I have this
time!”
Penrod squawked. For the moment he was incapable of coherent speech,
and then, failing in a convulsive attempt to reach his enemy, his fury
culminated upon an innocent object that had never done him the slightest
harm. Great-uncle Slocum's hat lay upon the ground close by, and Penrod
was in the state of irritation that seeks an outlet too blindly--as
people say, he “HAD to do SOMETHING!” He kicked great-uncle Slocum's hat
with such sweep and precision that it rose swiftly, and, breasting the
autumn breeze, passed over the fence and out into the street.
Great-uncle Slocum uttered a scream of anguish, and, immediately ceasing
to peacemake, ran forth to a more important rescue; but the conflict was
not renewed. Sanity had returned to Sam Williams; he was awed by this
colossal deed of Penrod's and filled with horror at the thaught that he
might be held as accessory to it. Fleetly he fled, pursued as far as
the gate by the whole body of Penrod, and thereafter by Penrod's voice
alone.
“You BETTER run! You wait till I catch you! You'll see what you get next
time! Don't you ever speak to me again as long as you--”
Here he paused abruptly, for great-uncle Slocum had recovered his hat
and was returning toward the gate. After one glance at great-uncle
Slocum, Penrod did not linger to attempt any explanation--there are
times when even a boy can see that apologies would seem out of place.
Penrod ran round the house to the backyard.
Here he was enthusiastically greeted by Duke. “You get away from
me!” Penrod said hoarsely, and with terrible gestures he repulsed the
faithful animal, who retired philosophically to the stable, while his
master let himself out of the back gate. Penrod had decided to absent
himself from home for the time being.
The sky was gray, and there were hints of coming dusk in the air; it
was an hour suited to his turbulent soul, and he walked with a sombre
swagger. “Ran like a c'ardy-calf!” he sniffed, half aloud, alluding to
the haste of Sam Williams in departure. “All he is, ole c'ardy-calf!”
Then, as he proceeded up the alley, a hated cry smote his ears: “Hi,
Penrod! How's your tree-mores?” And two jovial schoolboy faces appeared
above a high board fence. “How's your beautiful hair, Penrod?” they
vociferated. “When you goin' to git your parents' consent? What makes
you think you're only pretty, ole blue stars?”
Penrod looked about feverishly for a missile, and could find none to
his hand, but the surface of the alley sufficed; he made mud balls and
fiercely bombarded the vociferous fence. Naturally, hostile mud balls
presently issued from behind this barricade; and thus a campaign
developed that offered a picture not unlike a cartoonist's sketch of
a political campaign, wherein this same material is used for the
decoration of opponents. But Penrod had been unwise; he was outnumbered,
and the hostile forces held the advantageous side of the fence.
Mud balls can be hard as well as soggy; some of those that reached
Penrod were of no inconsiderable weight and substance, and they made him
grunt despite himself. Finally, one, at close range, struck him in
the pit of the stomach, whereupon he clasped himself about the middle
silently, and executed some steps in seeming imitation of a quaint
Indian dance.
His plight being observed through a knothole, his enemies climbed upon
the fence and regarded him seriously.
“Aw, YOU'RE all right, ain't you, old tree-mores?” inquired one.
“I'll SHOW you!” bellowed Penrod, recovering his breath; and he hurled
a fat ball--thoughtfully retained in hand throughout his agony--to such
effect that his interrogator disappeared backward from the fence without
having taken any initiative of his own in the matter. His comrade
impulsively joined him upon the ground, and the battle continued.
Through the gathering dusk it went on. It waged but the hotter as
darkness made aim more difficult--and still Penrod would not be driven
from the field. Panting, grunting, hoarse from returning insults,
fighting on and on, an indistinguishable figure in the gloom, he held
the back alley against all comers.
For such a combat darkness has one great advantage; but it has an
equally important disadvantage--the combatant cannot see to aim; on
the other hand, he cannot see to dodge. And all the while Penrod
was receiving two for one. He became heavy with mud. Plastered,
impressionistic and sculpturesque, there was about him a quality of the
tragic, of the magnificent. He resembled a sombre masterpiece by Rodin.
No one could have been quite sure what he was meant for.
Dinner bells tinkled in houses. Then they were rung from kitchen doors.
Calling voices came urging from the distance, calling boys' names into
the darkness. They called and a note of irritation seemed to mar their
beauty.
Then bells were rung again--and the voices renewed appeals more urgent,
much more irritated. They called and called and called.
THUD! went the mud balls.
Thud! Thud! Blunk!
“OOF!” said Penrod.
... Sam Williams, having dined with his family at their usual hour,
seven, slipped unostentatiously out of the kitchen door, as soon as he
could, after the conclusion of the meal, and quietly betook himself to
the Schofields' corner.
Here he stationed himself where he could see all avenues of approach
to the house, and waited. Twenty minutes went by, and then Sam became
suddenly alert and attentive, for the arc-light revealed a small,
grotesque figure slowly approaching along the sidewalk. It was brown in
colour, shaggy and indefinite in form; it limped excessively, and paused
to rub itself, and to meditate.
Peculiar as the thing was, Sam had no doubt as to its identity. He
advanced.
“'Lo, Penrod,” he said cautiously, and with a shade of formality.
Penrod leaned against the fence, and, lifting one leg, tested the
knee-joint by swinging his foot back and forth, a process evidently
provocative of a little pain. Then he rubbed the left side of his
encrusted face, and, opening his mouth to its whole capacity as
an aperture, moved his lower jaw slightly from side to side, thus
triumphantly settling a question in his own mind as to whether or no a
suspected dislocation had taken place.
Having satisfied himself on these points, he examined both shins
delicately by the sense of touch, and carefully tested the capacities of
his neck-muscles to move his head in a wonted manner. Then he responded
somewhat gruffly: “'Lo!” “Where you been?” Sam said eagerly, his
formality vanishing.
“Havin' a mud-fight.”
“I guess you did!” Sam exclaimed, in a low voice. “What you goin' to
tell your--”
“Oh, nothin'.”
“Your sister telephoned to our house to see if I knew where you were,”
said Sam. “She told me if I saw you before you got home to tell you
sumpthing; but not to say anything about it. She said Miss Spence had
telephoned to her, but she said for me to tell you it was all right
about that letter, and she wasn't goin' to tell your mother and father
on you, so you needn't say anything about it to 'em.”
“All right,” said Penrod indifferently.
“She says you're goin' to be in enough trouble without that,” Sam went
on. “You're goin' to catch fits about your Uncle Slocum's hat, Penrod.”
“Well, I guess I know it.”
“And about not comin' home to dinner, too. Your mother telephoned twice
to Mamma while we were eatin' to see if you'd come in our house. And
when they SEE you--MY, but you're goin' to get the DICKENS, Penrod!”
Penrod seemed unimpressed, though he was well aware that Sam's prophecy
was no unreasonable one.
“Well, I guess I know it,” he repeated casually. And he moved slowly
toward his own gate.
His friend looked after him curiously--then, as the limping figure
fumbled clumsily with bruised fingers at the latch of the gate, there
sounded a little solicitude in Sam's voice.
“Say, Penrod, how--how do you feel?”
“What?”
“Do you feel pretty bad?”
“No,” said Penrod, and, in spite of what awaited him beyond the lighted
portals just ahead, he spoke the truth. His nerves were rested, and his
soul was at peace. His Wednesday madness was over.
“No,” said Penrod; “I feel bully!”