Chapters 20 and 21

Chapter 20: Brothers of Angels

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“Indeed, doctor,” said Mrs. Schofield, with agitation and profound conviction, just after eight o’clock that evening, “I shall always believe in mustard plasters–mustard plasters and hot–water bags. If it hadn’t been for them I don’t believed he’d have lived till you got here–I do not!”

“Margaret,” called Mr. Schofield from the open door of a bedroom, “Margaret, where did you put that aromatic ammonia? Where’s Margaret?”

But he had to find the aromatic spirits of ammonia himself, for Margaret was not in the house. She stood in the shadow beneath a maple tree near the street corner, a guitar-case in her hand; and she scanned with anxiety a briskly approaching figure. The arc light, swinging above, revealed this figure as that of him she awaited. He was passing toward the gate without seeing her, when she arrested him with a fateful whisper.

“Bob!”

Mr. Robert Williams swung about hastily. “Why, Margaret!”

“Here, take your guitar,” she whispered hurriedly. “I was afraid if father happened to find it he’d break it all to pieces!”

“What for?” asked the startled Robert.

“Because I’m sure he knows it’s yours.”

“But what—-”

“Oh, Bob,” she moaned, “I was waiting here to tell you. I was so afraid you’d try to come in—-”

“Try!” exclaimed the unfortunate young man, quite dumfounded. “Try to come—-”

“Yes, before I warned you. I’ve been waiting here to tell you, Bob, you mustn’t come near the house if I were you I’d stay away from even this neighbourhood–far away! For a while I don’t think it would be actually safe for—-”

“Margaret, will you please—-”

“It’s all on account of that dollar you gave Penrod this morning,” she walled. “First, he bought that horrible concertina that made papa so furious “But Penrod didn’t tell that I—-”

“Oh, wait!” she cried lamentably. “Listen! He didn’t tell at lunch, but he got home about dinner-time in the most–well! I’ve seen pale people before, but nothing like Penrod. Nobody could imagine it–not unless they’d seen him! And he looked, so strange, and kept making such unnatural faces, and at first all he would say was that he’d eaten a little piece of apple and thought it must have some microbes on it. But he got sicker and sicker, and we put him to bed–and then we all thought he was going to die–and, of course, no little piece of apple would have–well, and he kept getting worse and then he said he’d had a dollar. He said he’d spent it for the concertina, and watermelon, and chocolate-creams, and licorice sticks, and lemon-drops, and peanuts, and jaw-breakers, and sardines, and raspberry lemonade, and pickles, and popcorn, and ice-cream, and cider, and sausage–there was sausage in his pocket, and mamma says his jacket is ruined–and cinnamon drops–and waffles–and he ate four or five lobster croquettes at lunch–and papa said, ‘Who gave you that dollar?’ Only he didn’t say ‘who’–he said something horrible, Bob! And Penrod thought he was going to die, and he said you gave it to him, and oh! it was just pitiful to hear the poor child, Bob, because he thought he was dying, you see, and he blamed you for the whole thing. He said if you’d only let him alone and not given it to him, he’d have grown up to be a good man–and now he couldn’t! I never heard anything so heart-rending–he was so weak he could hardly whisper, but he kept trying to talk, telling us over and over it was all your fault.”

In the darkness Mr. Williams’ facial expression could not be seen, but his voice sounded hopeful.

“Is he–is he still in a great deal of pain?”

“They say the crisis is past,” said Margaret, “but the doctor’s still up there. He said it was the acutest case of indigestion he had ever treated in the whole course of his professional practice.”

“Of course I didn’t know what he’d do with the dollar,” said Robert.

She did not reply.

He began plaintively, “Margaret, you don’t—-”

“I’ve never seen papa and mamma so upset about anything,” she said, rather primly.

“You mean they’re upset about me?”

“We are all very much upset,” returned Margaret, more starch in her tone as she remembered not only Penrod’s sufferings but a duty she had vowed herself to perform.

“Margaret! You don’t—-”

“Robert,” she said firmly and, also, with a rhetorical complexity which breeds a suspicion of pre-rehearsal–“Robert, for the present I can only look at it in one way: when you gave that money to Penrod you put into the hands of an unthinking little child a weapon which might be, and, indeed was, the means of his undoing. Boys are not respon—-”

“But you saw me give him the dollar, and you didn’t—-”

“Robert!” she checked him with increasing severity. “I am only a woman and not accustomed to thinking everything out on the spur of the moment; but I cannot change my mind. Not now, at least.”

“And you think I’d better not come in to-night?”

“To-night!” she gasped. “Not for weeks! Papa would—-”

“But Margaret,” he urged plaintively, “how can you blame me for—-”

“I have not used the word ‘blame,'” she interrupted. “But I must insist that for your carelessness to–to wreak such havoc–cannot fail to–to lessen my confidence in your powers of judgment. I cannot change my convictions in this matter–not to-night–and I cannot remain here another instant. The poor child may need me. Robert, good-night.”

With chill dignity she withdrew, entered the house, and returned to the sick-room, leaving the young man in outer darkness to brood upon his crime–and upon Penrod.

That sincere invalid became convalescent upon the third day; and a week elapsed, then, before he found an opportunity to leave the house unaccompanied–save by Duke. But at last he set forth and approached the Jones neighbourhood in high spirits, pleasantly conscious of his pallor, hollow cheeks, and other perquisites of illness provocative of interest.

One thought troubled him a little because it gave him a sense of inferiority to a rival. He believed, against his will, that Maurice Levy could have successfully eaten chocolate-creams, licorice sticks, lemon-drops, jaw-breakers, peanuts, waffles, lobster croquettes, sardines, cinnamon-drops, watermelon, pickles, popcorn, ice-cream and sausage with raspberry lemonade and cider. Penrod had admitted to himself that Maurice could do it and afterward attend to business, or pleasure, without the slightest discomfort; and this was probably no more than a fair estimate of one of the great constitutions of all time. As a digester, Maurice Levy would have disappointed a Borgia.

Fortunately, Maurice was still at Atlantic City–and now the convalescent’s heart leaped. In the distance he saw Marjorie coming–in pink again, with a ravishing little parasol over her head. And alone! No Mitchy-Mitch was to mar this meeting.

Penrod increased the feebleness of his steps, now and then leaning upon the fence as if for support.

“How do you do, Marjorie?” he said, in his best sick-room voice, as she came near.

To his pained amazement, she proceeded on her way, her nose at a celebrated elevation–an icy nose.

She cut him dead.

He threw his invalid’s airs to the winds, and hastened after her.

“Marjorie,” he pleaded, “what’s the matter? Are you mad? Honest, that day you said to come back next morning, and you’d be on the corner, I was sick. Honest, I was awful sick, Marjorie! I had to have the doctor—-”

“Doctor!” She whirled upon him, her lovely eyes blazing.

“I guess we’ve had to have the doctor enough at our house, thanks to you, Mister Penrod Schofield. Papa says you haven’t got near sense enough to come in out of the rain, after what you did to poor little Mitchy-Mitch—-”

“What?”

“Yes, and he’s sick in bed yet!” Marjorie went on, with unabated fury. “And papa says if he ever catches you in this part of town—-”

“What’d I do to Mitchy-Mitch?” gasped Penrod.

“You know well enough what you did to Mitchy-Mitch!” she cried. “You gave him that great, big, nasty two-cent piece!”

“Well, what of it?”

“Mitchy-Mitch swallowed it!”

“What!”

“And papa says if he ever just lays eyes on you, once, in this neighbourhood—-”

But Penrod had started for home.

In his embittered heart there was increasing a critical disapproval of the Creator’s methods. When He made pretty girls, thought Penrod, why couldn’t He have left out their little brothers!

Chapter 21: Rupe Collins

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For several days after this, Penrod thought of growing up to be a monk, and engaged in good works so far as to carry some kittens (that otherwise would have been drowned) and a pair of Margaret’s outworn dancing-slippers to a poor, ungrateful old man sojourning in a shed up the alley. And although Mr. Robert Williams, after a very short interval, began to leave his guitar on the front porch again, exactly as if he thought nothing had happened, Penrod, with his younger vision of a father’s mood, remained coldly distant from the Jones neighbourhood. With his own family his manner was gentle, proud and sad, but not for long enough to frighten them. The change came with mystifying abruptness at the end of the week.

It was Duke who brought it about.

Duke could chase a much bigger dog out of the Schofields’ yard and far down the street. This might be thought to indicate unusual valour on the part of Duke and cowardice on that of the bigger dogs whom he undoubtedly put to rout. On the contrary, all such flights were founded in mere superstition, for dogs are even more superstitious than boys; and the most firmly established of all dog superstitions is that any dog–be he the smallest and feeblest in the world–can whip any trespasser whatsoever.

A rat-terrier believes that on his home grounds he can whip an elephant. It follows, of course, that a big dog, away from his own home, will run from a little dog in the little dog’s neighbourhood. Otherwise, the big dog must face a charge of inconsistency, and dogs are as consistent as they are superstitious. A dog believes in war, but he is convinced that there are times when it is moral to run; and the thoughtful physiognomist, seeing a big dog fleeing out of a little dog’s yard, must observe that the expression of the big dog’s face is more conscientious than alarmed: it is the expression of a person performing a duty to himself.

Penrod understood these matters perfectly; he knew that the gaunt brown hound Duke chased up the alley had fled only out of deference to a custom, yet Penrod could not refrain from bragging of Duke to the hound’s owner, a fat-faced stranger of twelve or thirteen, who had wandered into the neighbourhood.

“You better keep that ole yellow dog o’ yours back,” said Penrod ominously, as he climbed the fence. “You better catch him and hold him till I get mine inside the yard again. Duke’s chewed up some pretty bad bulldogs around here.”

The fat-faced boy gave Penrod a fishy stare. “You’d oughta learn him not to do that,” he said. “It’ll make him sick.”

“What will?”

The stranger laughed raspingly and gazed up the alley, where the hound, having come to a halt, now coolly sat down, and, with an expression of roguish benevolence, patronizingly watched the tempered fury of Duke, whose assaults and barkings were becoming perfunctory.

“What’ll make Duke sick?” Penrod demanded.

“Eatin’ dead bulldogs people leave around here.”

This was not improvisation but formula, adapted from other occasions to the present encounter; nevertheless, it was new to Penrod, and he was so taken with it that resentment lost itself in admiration. Hastily committing the gem to memory for use upon a dog-owning friend, he inquired in a sociable tone:

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Dan. You better call your ole pup, ’cause Dan eats live dogs.”

Dan’s actions poorly supported his master’s assertion, for, upon Duke’s ceasing to bark, Dan rose and showed the most courteous interest in making the little, old dog’s acquaintance. Dan had a great deal of manner, and it became plain that Duke was impressed favourably in spite of former prejudice, so that presently the two trotted amicably back to their masters and sat down with the harmonious but indifferent air of having known each other intimately for years.

They were received without comment, though both boys looked at them reflectively for a time. It was Penrod who spoke first.

“What number you go to?” (In an “oral lesson in English,” Penrod had been instructed to put this question in another form: “May I ask which of our public schools you attend?”)

“Me? What number do I go to?” said the stranger, contemptuously. “I don’t go to no number in vacation!”

“I mean when it ain’t.”

“Third,” returned the fat-faced boy. “I got ’em all scared in that school.”

“What of?” innocently asked Penrod, to whom “the Third”–in a distant part of town–was undiscovered country.

“What of? I guess you’d soon see what of, if you ever was in that school about one day. You’d be lucky if you got out alive!”

“Are the teachers mean?”

The other boy frowned with bitter scorn. “Teachers! Teachers don’t order me around, I can tell you! They’re mighty careful how they try to run over Rupe Collins.”
“Who’s Rupe Collins?”

“Who is he?” echoed the fat-faced boy incredulously. “Say, ain’t you got any sense?”

“What?”

“Say, wouldn’t you be just as happy if you had some sense?”

“Ye-es.” Penrod’s answer, like the look he lifted to the impressive stranger, was meek and placative. “Rupe Collins is the principal at your school, guess.”

The other yelled with jeering laughter, and mocked Penrod’s manner and voice. “Rupe Collins is the principal at your school, I guess!” He laughed harshly again, then suddenly showed truculence. “Say, ‘bo, whyn’t you learn enough to go in the house when it rains? What’s the matter of you, anyhow?”

“Well,” urged Penrod timidly, “nobody ever told me who Rupe Collins is: I got a right to think he’s the principal, haven’t I?”

The fat-faced boy shook his head disgustedly. “Honest, you make me sick!”

Penrod’s expression became one of despair. “Well, who is he?” he cried.

“‘Who is he?'” mocked the other, with a scorn that withered. “‘Who is he?’ Me!”

“Oh!” Penrod was humiliated but relieved: he felt that he had proved himself criminally ignorant, yet a peril seemed to have passed. “Rupe Collins is your name, then, I guess. I kind of thought it was, all the time.”

The fat-faced boy still appeared embittered, burlesquing this speech in a hateful falsetto. “‘Rupe Collins is your name, then, I guess!’ Oh, you ‘kind of thought it was, all the time,’ did you?” Suddenly concentrating his brow into a histrionic scowl he thrust his face within an inch of Penrod’s. “Yes, sonny, Rupe Collins is my name, and you better look out what you say when he’s around or you’ll get in big trouble! You understand that, ‘Bo?”

Penrod was cowed but fascinated: he felt that there was something dangerous and dashing about this newcomer.

“Yes,” he said, feebly, drawing back. “My name’s Penrod Schofield.”

“Then I reckon your father and mother ain’t got good sense,” said Mr. Collins promptly, this also being formula.

“Why?”
“Cause if they had they’d of give you a good name!” And the agreeable youth instantly rewarded himself for the wit with another yell of rasping laughter, after which he pointed suddenly at Penrod’s right hand.

“Where’d you get that wart on your finger?” he demanded severely.

“Which finger?” asked the mystified Penrod, extending his hand.

“The middle one.”

“Where?”

“There!” exclaimed Rupe Collins, seizing and vigorously twisting the wartless finger naively offered for his inspection.

“Quit!” shouted Penrod in agony. “Quee-yut!”

“Say your prayers!” commanded Rupe, and continued to twist the luckless finger until Penrod writhed to his knees.

“Ow!” The victim, released, looked grievously upon the still painful finger.

At this Rupe’s scornful expression altered to one of contrition. “Well, I declare!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “I didn’t s’pose it would hurt. Turn about’s fair play; so now you do that to me.”

He extended the middle finger of his left hand and Penrod promptly seized it, but did not twist it, for he was instantly swung round with his back to his amiable new acquaintance: Rupe’s right hand operated upon the back of Penrod’s slender neck; Rupe’s knee tortured the small of Penrod’s back.

“Ow!” Penrod bent far forward involuntarily and went to his knees again.

“Lick dirt,” commanded Rupe, forcing the captive’s face to the sidewalk; and the suffering Penrod completed this ceremony.

Mr. Collins evinced satisfaction by means of his horse laugh.

“You’d last jest about one day up at the Third!” he said. “You’d come runnin’ home, yellin’ ‘Mom-muh, Mom-muh,’ before recess was over!”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Penrod protested rather weakly, dusting his knees.

“You would, too!”

“No, I w—-

“Looky here,” said the fat-faced boy, darkly, “what you mean, counterdicking me?”

He advanced a step and Penrod hastily qualified his contradiction.

“I mean, I don’t think I would. I—-”

“You better look out!” Rupe moved closer, and unexpectedly grasped the back of Penrod’s neck again. “Say, ‘I would run home yellin’ “Mom-muh!”

“Ow! I would run home yellin’ ‘Mom-muh.'”

“There!” said Rupe, giving the helpless nape a final squeeze. “That’s the way we do up at the Third.”

Penrod rubbed his neck and asked meekly:

“Can you do that to any boy up at the Third?”

“See here now,” said Rupe, in the tone of one goaded beyond all endurance, “You say if I can! You better say it quick, or—-”

“I knew you could,” Penrod interposed hastily, with the pathetic semblance of a laugh. “I only said that in fun.”

“In ‘fun’!” repeated Rupe stormily. “You better look out how you—-”

“Well, I said I wasn’t in earnest!” Penrod retreated a few steps. “I knew you could, all the time. I expect I could do it to some of the boys up at the Third, myself. Couldn’t I?”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Well, there must be some boy up there that I could—-”

“No, they ain’t! You better—-”

“I expect not, then,” said Penrod, quickly.

“You better ‘expect not.’ Didn’t I tell you once you’d never get back alive if you ever tried to come up around the Third? You want me to show you how we do up there, ‘bo?”

He began a slow and deadly advance, whereupon Penrod timidly offered a diversion:

“Say, Rupe, I got a box of rats in our stable under a glass cover, so you can watch ’em jump around when you hammer on the box. Come on and look at ’em.”

“All right,” said the fat-faced boy, slightly mollified. “We’ll let Dan kill ’em.”

“No, sir! I’m goin’ to keep ’em. They’re kind of pets; I’ve had ’em all summer–I got names for em, and—-”

“Looky here, ‘bo. Did you hear me say we’ll let ‘Dan kill ’em?”

“Yes, but I won’t—-”

“What won’t you?” Rupe became sinister immediately. “It seems to me you’re gettin’ pretty fresh around here.”

“Well, I don’t want—-”

Mr. Collins once more brought into play the dreadful eye-to- eye scowl as practised “up at the Third,” and, sometimes, also by young leading men upon the stage. Frowning appallingly, and thrusting forward his underlip, he placed his nose almost in contact with the nose of Penrod, whose eyes naturally became crossed.

“Dan kills the rats. See?” hissed the fat-faced boy, maintaining the horrible juxtaposition.

“Well, all right,” said Penrod, swallowing. “I don’t want ’em much.” And when the pose had been relaxed, he stared at his new friend for a moment, almost with reverence. Then he brightened.

“Come on, Rupe!” he cried enthusiastically, as he climbed the fence. “We’ll give our dogs a little live meat–‘bo!”

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