Chapter 24: “Little Gentleman”
The midsummer sun was stinging hot outside the little barber-shop next to the corner drug store and Penrod, undergoing a toilette preliminary to his very slowly approaching twelfth birthday, was adhesive enough to retain upon his face much hair as it fell from the shears. There is a mystery here: the tonsorial processes are not unagreeable to manhood; in truth, they are soothing; but the hairs detached from a boy’s head get into his eyes, his ears, his nose, his mouth, and down his neck, and he does everywhere itch excruciatingly. Wherefore he blinks, winks, weeps, twitches, condenses his countenance, and squirms; and perchance the barber’s scissors clip more than intended–belike an outlying flange of ear.
“Um–muh–ow!” said Penrod, this thing having happened.
“D’ I touch y’ up a little?” inquired the barber, smiling falsely.
“Ooh–uh!” The boy in the chair offered inarticulate protest, as the wound was rubbed with alum.
“That don’t hurt!” said the barber. “You will get it, though, if you don’t sit stiller,” he continued, nipping in the bud any attempt on the part of his patient to think that he already had “it.”
“Pfuff!” said Penrod, meaning no disrespect, but endeavoring to dislodge a temporary moustache from his lip.
“You ought to see how still that little Georgie Bassett sits,” the barber went on, reprovingly. “I hear everybody says he’s the best boy in town.”
“Pfuff! Phirr!” There was a touch of intentional contempt in this.
“I haven’t heard nobody around the neighbourhood makin’ no such remarks,” added the barber, “about nobody of the name of Penrod Schofield.”
“Well,” said Penrod, clearing his mouth after a struggle, “who wants ’em to? Ouch!”
“I hear they call Georgie Bassett the ‘little gentleman,'” ventured the barber, provocatively, meeting with instant success.
“They better not call me that,” returned Penrod truculently. “I’d like to hear anybody try. Just once, that’s all! I bet they’d never try it ag—-ouch!”
“Why? What’d you do to ’em?”
“It’s all right what I’d do! I bet they wouldn’t want to call me that again long as they lived!”
“What’d you do if it was a little girl? You wouldn’t hit her, would you?”
“Well, I’d—- Ouch!”
“You wouldn’t hit a little girl, would you?” the barber persisted, gathering into his powerful fingers a mop of hair from the top of Penrod’s head and pulling that suffering head into an unnatural position. “Doesn’t the Bible say it ain’t never right to hit the weak sex?”
“Ow! Say, look out!”
“So you’d go and punch a pore, weak, little girl, would you?” said the barber, reprovingly.
“Well, who said I’d hit her?” demanded the chivalrous Penrod. “I bet I’d fix her though, all right. She’d see!”
“You wouldn’t call her names, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t! What hurt is it to call anybody names?”
“Is that so!” exclaimed the barber. “Then you was intending what I heard you hollering at Fisher’s grocery delivery wagon driver fer a favour, the other day when I was goin’ by your house, was you? I reckon I better tell him, because he says to me after-werds if he ever lays eyes on you when you ain’t in your own yard, he’s goin’ to do a whole lot o’ things you ain’t goin’ to like! Yessir, that’s what he says to me!”
“He better catch me first, I guess, before he talks so much.”
“Well,” resumed the barber, “that ain’t sayin’ what you’d do if a young lady ever walked up and called you a little gentleman. I want to hear what you’d do to her. I guess I know, though–come to think of it.”
“What?” demanded Penrod.
“You’d sick that pore ole dog of yours on her cat, if she had one, I expect,” guessed the barber derisively.
“No, I would not!”
“Well, what would you do?”
“I’d do enough. Don’t worry about that!”
“Well, suppose it was a boy, then: what’d you do if a boy come up to you and says, ‘Hello, little gentleman’?”
“He’d be lucky,” said Penrod, with a sinister frown, “if he got home alive.”
“Suppose it was a boy twice your size?”
“Just let him try,” said Penrod ominously. “You just let him try. He’d never see daylight again; that’s all!”
The barber dug ten active fingers into the helpless scalp before him and did his best to displace it, while the anguished Penrod, becoming instantly a seething crucible of emotion, misdirected his natural resentment into maddened brooding upon what he would do to a boy “twice his size” who should dare to call him “little gentleman.” The barber shook him as his father had never shaken him; the barber buffeted him, rocked him frantically to and fro; the barber seemed to be trying to wring his neck; and Penrod saw himself in staggering zigzag pictures, destroying large, screaming, fragmentary boys who had insulted him.
The torture stopped suddenly; and clenched, weeping eyes began to see again, while the barber applied cooling lotions which made Penrod smell like a housemaid’s ideal.
“Now what,” asked the barber, combing the reeking locks gently, “what would it make you so mad fer, to have somebody call you a little gentleman? It’s a kind of compliment, as it were, you might say. What would you want to hit anybody fer that fer?”
To the mind of Penrod, this question was without meaning or reasonableness. It was within neither his power nor his desire to analyze the process by which the phrase had become offensive to him, and was now rapidly assuming the proportions of an outrage. He knew only that his gorge rose at the thought of it.
“You just let ’em try it!” he said threateningly, as he slid down from the chair. And as he went out of the door, after further conversation on the same subject, he called back those warning words once more: “Just let ’em try it! Just once– that’s all I ask ’em to. They’ll find out what they get!”
The barber chuckled. Then a fly lit on the barber’s nose and he slapped at it, and the slap missed the fly but did not miss the nose. The barber was irritated. At this moment his birdlike eye gleamed a gleam as it fell upon customers approaching: the prettiest little girl in the world, leading by the hand her baby brother, Mitchy-Mitch, coming to have Mitchy-Mitch’s hair clipped, against the heat.
It was a hot day and idle, with little to feed the mind–and the barber was a mischievous man with an irritated nose. He did his worst.
Meanwhile, the brooding Penrod pursued his homeward way; no great distance, but long enough for several one-sided conflicts with malign insulters made of thin air. “You better not call me that!” he muttered. “You just try it, and you’ll get what other people got when they tried it. You better not ack fresh with me! Oh, you will, will you?” He delivered a vicious kick full upon the shins of an iron fence-post, which suffered little, though Penrod instantly regretted his indiscretion. “Oof!” he grunted, hopping; and went on after bestowing a look of awful hostility upon the fence-post. “I guess you’ll know better next time,” he said, in parting, to this antagonist. “You just let me catch you around here again and I’ll—-” His voice sank to inarticulate but ominous murmurings. He was in a dangerous mood.
Nearing home, however, his belligerent spirit was diverted to happier interests by the discovery that some workmen had left a caldron of tar in the cross-street, close by his father’s stable. He tested it, but found it inedible. Also, as a substitute for professional chewing-gum it was unsatisfactory, being insufficiently boiled down and too thin, though of a pleasant, lukewarm temperature. But it had an excess of one quality–it was sticky. It was the stickiest tar Penrod had ever used for any purposes whatsoever, and nothing upon which he wiped his hands served to rid them of it; neither his polka-dotted shirt waist nor his knickerbockers; neither the fence, nor even Duke, who came unthinkingly wagging out to greet him, and retired wiser.
Nevertheless, tar is tar. Much can be done with it, no matter what its condition; so Penrod lingered by the caldron, though from a neighbouring yard could be heard the voices of comrades, including that of Sam Williams. On the ground about the caldron were scattered chips and sticks and bits of wood to the number of a great multitude. Penrod mixed quantities of this refuse into the tar, and interested himself in seeing how much of it he could keep moving in slow swirls upon the ebon surface.
Other surprises were arranged for the absent workmen. The caldron was almost full, and the surface of the tar near the rim.
Penrod endeavoured to ascertain how many pebbles and brickbats, dropped in, would cause an overflow. Labouring heartily to this end, he had almost accomplished it, when he received the suggestion for an experiment on a much larger scale. Embedded at the corner of a grassplot across the street was a whitewashed stone, the size of a small watermelon and serving no purpose whatever save the questionable one of decoration. It was easily pried up with a stick; though getting it to the caldron tested the full strength of the ardent labourer. Instructed to perform such a task, he would have sincerely maintained its impossibility but now, as it was unbidden, and promised rather destructive results, he set about it with unconquerable energy, feeling certain that he would be rewarded with a mighty splash. Perspiring, grunting vehemently, his back aching and all muscles strained, he progressed in short stages until the big stone lay at the base of the caldron. He rested a moment, panting, then lifted the stone, and was bending his shoulders for the heave that would lift it over the rim, when a sweet, taunting voice, close behind him, startled him cruelly.
“How do you do, little gentleman!”
Penrod squawked, dropped the stone, and shouted, “Shut up, you dern fool!” purely from instinct, even before his about-face made him aware who had so spitefully addressed him.
It was Marjorie Jones. Always dainty, and prettily dressed, she was in speckless and starchy white to-day, and a refreshing picture she made, with the new-shorn and powerfully scented Mitchy-Mitch clinging to her hand. They had stolen up behind the toiler, and now stood laughing together in sweet merriment. Since the passing of Penrod’s Rupe Collins period he had experienced some severe qualms at the recollection of his last meeting with Marjorie and his Apache behaviour; in truth, his heart instantly became as wax at sight of her, and he would have offered her fair speech; but, alas! in Marjorie’s wonderful eyes there shone a consciousness of new powers for his undoing, and she denied him opportunity.
“Oh, oh!” she cried, mocking his pained outcry. “What a way for a little gentleman to talk! Little gentleman don’t say wicked—-”
“Marjorie!” Penrod, enraged and dismayed, felt himself stung beyond all endurance. Insult from her was bitterer to endure than from any other. “Don’t you call me that again!”
“Why not, little gentleman?”
He stamped his foot. “You better stop!”
Marjorie sent into his furious face her lovely, spiteful laughter.
“Little gentleman, little gentleman, little gentleman!” she said deliberately. “How’s the little gentleman, this afternoon? Hello, little gentleman!”
Penrod, quite beside himself, danced eccentrically. “Dry up!” he howled. “Dry up, dry up, dry up, dry up!”
Mitchy-Mitch shouted with delight and applied a finger to the side of the caldron–a finger immediately snatched away and wiped upon a handkerchief by his fastidious sister.
“‘Ittle gellamun!” said Mitchy-Mitch.
“You better look out!” Penrod whirled upon this small offender with grim satisfaction. Here was at least something male that could without dishonour be held responsible. “You say that again, and I’ll give you the worst—-”
“You will not!” snapped Marjorie, instantly vitriolic. “He’ll say just whatever he wants to, and he’ll say it just as much as he wants to. Say it again, Mitchy-Mitch!”
“‘Ittle gellamun!” said Mitchy-Mitch promptly.
“Ow-yah!” Penrod’s tone-production was becoming affected by his mental condition. “You say that again, and I’ll—-”
“Go on, Mitchy-Mitch,” cried Marjorie. “He can’t do a thing. He don’t dare! Say it some more, Mitchy-Mitch–say it a whole lot!”
Mitchy-Mitch, his small, fat face shining with confidence in his immunity, complied.
“‘Ittle gellamun!” he squeaked malevolently. “‘Ittle gellamun! ‘Ittle gellamun! ‘Ittle gellamun!”
The desperate Penrod bent over the whitewashed rock, lifted it, and then–outdoing Porthos, John Ridd, and Ursus in one miraculous burst of strength–heaved it into the air.
Marjorie screamed.
But it was too late. The big stone descended into the precise midst of the caldron and Penrod got his mighty splash. It was far, far beyond his expectations.
Spontaneously there were grand and awful effects–volcanic spectacles of nightmare and eruption. A black sheet of eccentric shape rose out of the caldron and descended upon the three children, who had no time to evade it.
After it fell, Mitchy-Mitch, who stood nearest the caldron, was the thickest, though there was enough for all. Br’er Rabbit would have fled from any of them.
Chapter 25: Tar
When Marjorie and Mitchy-Mitch got their breath, they used it vocally; and seldom have more penetrating sounds issued from human throats. Coincidentally, Marjorie, quite baresark, laid hands upon the largest stick within reach and fell upon Penrod with blind fury. He had the presence of mind to flee, and they went round and round the caldron, while Mitchy-Mitch feebly endeavoured to follow–his appearance, in this pursuit, being pathetically like that of a bug fished out of an ink-well, alive but discouraged.
Attracted by the riot, Samuel Williams made his appearance, vaulting a fence, and was immediately followed by Maurice Levy and Georgie Bassett. They stared incredulously at the extraordinary spectacle before them.
“Little gen-til-mun!” shrieked Marjorie, with a wild stroke that landed full upon Penrod’s tarry cap.
“Oooch!” bleated Penrod.
“It’s Penrod!” shouted Sam Williams, recognizing him by the voice. For an instant he had been in some doubt.
“Penrod Schofield!” exclaimed Georgie Bassett. “What does this mean?” That was Georgie’s style, and had helped to win him his title.
Marjorie leaned, panting, upon her stick. “I cu-called–uh–him–oh!” she sobbed–“I called him a lul-little–oh–gentleman! And oh–lul-look!–oh! lul-look at my du-dress! Lul-look at Mu-mitchy–oh–Mitch–oh!”
Unexpectedly, she smote again–with results–and then, seizing the indistinguishable hand of Mitchy-Mitch, she ran wailing homeward down the street.
“‘Little gentleman’?” said Georgie Bassett, with some evidences of disturbed complacency. “Why, that’s what they call me!”
“Yes, and you are one, too!” shouted the maddened Penrod. “But you better not let anybody call me that! I’ve stood enough around here for one day, and you can’t run over me, Georgie Bassett. Just you put that in your gizzard and smoke it!”
“Anybody has a perfect right,” said Georgie, with, dignity, “to call a person a little gentleman. There’s lots of names nobody ought to call, but this one’s a nice—-”
“You better look out!”
Unavenged bruises were distributed all over Penrod, both upon his body and upon his spirit. Driven by subtle forces, he had dipped his hands in catastrophe and disaster: it was not for a Georgie Bassett to beard him. Penrod was about to run amuck.
“I haven’t called you a little gentleman, yet,” said Georgie. “I only said it. Anybody’s got a right to say it.”
“Not around me! You just try it again and—-”
“I shall say it,” returned Georgie, “all I please. Anybody in this town has a right to say ‘little gentleman’—-”
Bellowing insanely, Penrod plunged his right hand into the caldron, rushed upon Georgie and made awful work of his hair and features.
Alas, it was but the beginning! Sam Williams and Maurice Levy screamed with delight, and, simultaneously infected, danced about the struggling pair, shouting frantically:
“Little gentleman! Little gentleman! Sick him, Georgie! Sick him, little gentleman! Little gentleman! Little gentleman!”
The infuriated outlaw turned upon them with blows and more tar, which gave Georgie Bassett his opportunity and later seriously impaired the purity of his fame. Feeling himself hopelessly tarred, he dipped both hands repeatedly into the caldron and applied his gatherings to Penrod. It was bringing coals to Newcastle, but it helped to assuage the just wrath of Georgie.
The four boys gave a fine imitation of the Laocoon group complicated by an extra figure frantic splutterings and chokings, strange cries and stranger words issued from this tangle; hands dipped lavishly into the inexhaustible reservoir of tar, with more and more picturesque results. The caldron had been elevated upon bricks and was not perfectly balanced; and under a heavy impact of the struggling group it lurched and went partly over, pouring forth a Stygian tide which formed a deep pool in the gutter.
It was the fate of Master Roderick Bitts, that exclusive and immaculate person, to make his appearance upon the chaotic scene at this juncture. All in the cool of a white “sailor suit,” he turned aside from the path of duty–which led straight to the house of a maiden aunt–and paused to hop with joy upon the sidewalk. A repeated epithet continuously half panted, half squawked, somewhere in the nest of gladiators, caught his ear, and he took it up excitedly, not knowing why.
“Little gentleman!” shouted Roderick, jumping up and down in childish glee. “Little gentleman! Little gentleman! Lit—-”
A frightful figure tore itself free from the group, encircled this innocent bystander with a black arm, and hurled him headlong. Full length and flat on his face went Roderick into the Stygian pool. The frightful figure was Penrod.
Instantly, the pack flung themselves upon him again, and, carrying them with him, he went over upon Roderick, who from that instant was as active a belligerent as any there.
Thus began the Great Tar Fight, the origin of which proved, afterward, so difficult for parents to trace, owing to the opposing accounts of the combatants. Marjorie
said Penrod began it; Penrod said Mitchy-Mitch began it; Sam Williams said Georgie Bassett began it; Georgie and Maurice Levy said Penrod began it; Roderick Bitts, who had not recognized his first assailant, said Sam Williams began it.
Nobody thought of accusing the barber. But the barber did not begin it; it was the fly on the barber’s nose that began it–though, of course, something else began the fly. Somehow, we never manage to hang the real offender.
The end came only with the arrival of Penrod’s mother, who had been having a painful conversation by telephone with Mrs. Jones, the mother of Marjorie, and came forth to seek an errant son. It is a mystery how she was able to pick out her own, for by the time she got there his voice was too hoarse to be recognizable. Mr. Schofield’s version of things was that Penrod was insane. “He’s a stark, raving lunatic!” declared the father, descending to the library from a before-dinner interview with the outlaw, that evening. “I’d send him to military school, but I don’t believe they’d take him. Do you know why he says all that awfulness happened?”
“When Margaret and I were trying to scrub him,” responded Mrs. Schofield wearily, “he said ‘everybody’ had been calling him names.”
“‘Names!'” snorted her husband. “‘Little gentleman!’ That’s the vile epithet they called him! And because of it he wrecks the peace of six homes!”
“Sh! Yes; he told us about it,” said Mrs. Schofield, moaning. “He told us several hundred times, I should guess, though I didn’t count. He’s got it fixed in his head, and we couldn’t get it out. All we could do was to put him in the closet. He’d have gone out again after those boys if we hadn’t. I don’t know what to make of him!”
“He’s a mystery to me!” said her husband. “And he refuses to explain why he objects to being called ‘little gentleman.’ Says he’d do the same thing–and worse–if anybody dared to call him that again. He said if the President of the United States called him that he’d try to whip him. How long did you have him locked up in the closet?”
“Sh!” said Mrs. Schofield warningly. “About two hours; but I don’t think it softened his spirit at all, because when I took him to the barber’s to get his hair clipped again, on account of the tar in it, Sammy Williams and Maurice Levy were there for the same reason, and they just whispered ‘little gentleman,’ so low you could hardly hear them–and Penrod began fighting with them right before me, and it was really all the barber and I could do to drag him away from them. The barber was very kind about it, but Penrod—-”
“I tell you he’s a lunatic!” Mr. Schofield would have said the same thing of a Frenchman infuriated by the epithet “camel.” The philosophy of insult needs expounding.
“Sh!” said Mrs. Schofield. “It does seem a kind of frenzy.”
“Why on earth should any sane person mind being called—-”
“Sh!” said Mrs. Schofield. “It’s beyond me!”
“What are you sh-ing me for?” demanded Mr. Schofield explosively.
“Sh!” said Mrs. Schofield. “It’s Mr. Kinosling, the new rector of Saint Joseph’s.”
“Where?”
“Sh! On the front porch with Margaret; he’s going to stay for dinner. I do hope—-”
“Bachelor, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Our old minister was speaking of him the other day,” said Mr. Schofield, “and he didn’t seem so terribly impressed.”
“Sh! Yes; about thirty, and of course so superior to most of Margaret’s friends–boys home from college. She thinks she likes young Robert Williams, I know–but he laughs so much! Of course there isn’t any comparison. Mr. Kinosling talks so intellectually; it’s a good thing for Margaret to hear that kind of thing, for a change and, of course, he’s very spiritual. He seems very much interested in her.” She paused to muse. “I think Margaret likes him; he’s so different, too. It’s the third time he’s dropped in this week, and I—-”
“Well,” said Mr. Schofield grimly, “if you and Margaret want him to come again, you’d better not let him see Penrod.”
“But he’s asked to see him; he seems interested in meeting all the family. And Penrod nearly always behaves fairly well at table.” She paused, and then put to her husband a question referring to his interview with Penrod upstairs. “Did you–did you–do it?”
“No,” he answered gloomily. “No, I didn’t, but—-” He was interrupted by a violent crash of china and metal in the kitchen, a shriek from Della, and the outrageous voice of Penrod. The well-informed Della, ill-inspired to set up for a wit, had ventured to address the scion of the house roguishly as “little gentleman,” and Penrod, by means of the rapid elevation of his right foot, had removed from her supporting hands a laden tray. Both parents, started for the kitchen, Mr. Schofield completing his interrupted sentence on the way.
“But I will, now!”
The rite thus promised was hastily but accurately performed in that apartment most distant from the front porch; and, twenty minutes later, Penrod descended to dinner. The Rev. Mr. Kinosling had asked for the pleasure of meeting him, and it had been decided that the only course possible was to cover up the scandal for the present, and to offer an undisturbed and smiling family surface to the gaze of the visitor.
Scorched but not bowed, the smouldering Penrod was led forward for the social formulae simultaneously with the somewhat bleak departure of Robert Williams, who took his guitar with him, this time, and went in forlorn unconsciousness of the powerful forces already set in secret motion to be his allies.
The punishment just undergone had but made the haughty and unyielding soul of Penrod more stalwart in revolt; he was unconquered. Every time the one intolerable insult had been offered him, his resentment had become the hotter, his vengeance the more instant and furious. And, still burning with outrage, but upheld by the conviction of right, he was determined to continue to the last drop of his blood the defense of his honour, whenever it should be assailed, no matter how mighty or august the powers that attacked it. In all ways, he was a very sore boy.
During the brief ceremony of presentation, his usually inscrutable countenance wore an expression interpreted by his father as one of insane obstinacy, while Mrs. Schofield found it an incentive to inward prayer. The fine graciousness of Mr. Kinosling, however, was unimpaired by the glare of virulent suspicion given him by this little brother: Mr. Kinosling mistook it for a natural curiosity concerning one who might possibly become, in time, a member of the family. He patted Penrod upon the head, which was, for many reasons, in no condition to be patted with any pleasure to the patter. Penrod felt himself in the presence of a new enemy.
“How do you do, my little lad,” said Mr. Kinosling. “I trust we shall become fast friends.”
To the ear of his little lad, it seemed he said, “A trost we shall bick-home fawst frainds.” Mr. Kinosling’s pronunciation was, in fact, slightly precious; and, the little lad, simply mistaking it for some cryptic form of mockery of himself, assumed a manner and expression which argued so ill for the proposed friendship that Mrs. Schofield hastily interposed the suggestion of dinner, and the small procession went in to the dining-room.
“It has been a delicious day,” said Mr. Kinosling, presently; “warm but balmy.” With a benevolent smile he addressed Penrod, who sat opposite him. “I suppose, little gentleman, you have been indulging in the usual outdoor sports of vacation?”
Penrod laid down his fork and glared, open-mouthed at Mr. Kinosling.
“You’ll have another slice of breast of the chicken?” Mr. Schofield inquired, loudly and quickly.
“A lovely day!” exclaimed Margaret, with equal promptitude and emphasis. “Lovely, oh, lovely! Lovely!”
“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!” said Mrs. Schofield, and after a glance at Penrod which confirmed her impression that he intended to say something, she continued, “Yes, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful beautiful!”
Penrod closed his mouth and sank back in his chair–and his relatives took breath.
Mr. Kinosling looked pleased. This responsive family, with its ready enthusiasm, made the kind of audience he liked. He passed a delicate white hand gracefully over his tall, pale forehead, and smiled indulgently.
“Youth relaxes in summer,” he said. “Boyhood is the age of relaxation; one is playful, light, free, unfettered. One runs and leaps and enjoys one’s self with one’s companions. It is good for the little lads to play with their friends; they jostle, push, and wrestle, and simulate little, happy struggles with one another in harmless conflict. The young muscles are toughening. It is good. Boyish chivalry develops, enlarges, expands. The young learn quickly, intuitively, spontaneously. They perceive the obligations of noblesse oblige. They begin to comprehend the necessity of caste and its requirements. They learn what birth means–ah,–that is, they learn what it means to be well born. They learn courtesy in their games; they learn politeness, consideration for one another in their pastimes, amusements, lighter occupations. I make it my pleasure to join them often, for I sympathize with them in all their wholesome joys as well as in their little bothers and perplexities. I understand them, you see; and let me tell you it is no easy matter to understand the little lads and lassies.” He sent to each listener his beaming glance, and, permitting it to come to rest upon Penrod, inquired:
“And what do you say to that, little gentleman?”
Mr. Schofield uttered a stentorian cough. “More? You’d better have some more chicken! More! Do!”
“More chicken!” urged Margaret simultaneously. “Do please! Please! More! Do! More!”
“Beautiful, beautiful,” began Mrs. Schofield. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful—-”
It is not known in what light Mr. Kinosling viewed the expression of Penrod’s face. Perhaps he mistook it for awe; perhaps he received no impression at all of its extraordinary quality. He was a rather self-engrossed young man, just then engaged in a double occupation, for he not only talked, but supplied from his own consciousness a critical though favourable auditor as well, which of course kept him quite busy. Besides, it is oftener than is expected the case that extremely peculiar expressions upon the countenances of boys are entirely overlooked, and suggest nothing to the minds of people staring straight at them. Certainly Penrod’s expression–which, to the perception of his family, was perfectly horrible–caused not the faintest perturbation in the breast of Mr. Kinosling.
Mr. Kinosling waived the chicken, and continued to talk. “Yes, I think I may claim to understand boys,” he said, smiling thoughtfully. “One has been a boy one’s self. Ah, it is not all playtime! I hope our young scholar here does not overwork himself at his Latin, at his classics, as I did, so that at the age of eight years I was compelled to wear glasses. He must be careful not to strain the little eyes at his scholar’s tasks, not to let the little shoulders grow round over his scholar’s desk. Youth is golden; we should keep it golden, bright, glistening. Youth should frolic, should be sprightly; it should play its cricket, its tennis, its hand-ball. It should run and leap; it should laugh, should sing madrigals and glees, carol with the lark, ring out in chanties, folk-songs, ballads, roundelays—-”
He talked on. At any instant Mr. Schofield held himself ready to cough vehemently and shout, “More chicken,” to drown out Penrod in case the fatal words again fell from those eloquent lips; and Mrs. Schofield and Margaret kept themselves prepared at all times to assist him. So passed a threatening meal, which Mrs. Schofield hurried, by every means with decency, to its conclusion. She felt that somehow they would all be safer out in the dark of the front porch, and led the way thither as soon as possible.
“No cigar, I thank you.” Mr. Kinosling, establishing himself in a wicker chair beside Margaret, waved away her father’s proffer. “I do not smoke. I have never tasted tobacco in any form.” Mrs. Schofield was confirmed in her opinion that this would be an ideal son-in-law. Mr. Schofield was not so sure.
“No,” said Mr. Kinosling. “No tobacco for me. No cigar, no pipe, no cigarette, no cheroot. For me, a book–a volume of poems, perhaps. Verses, rhymes, lines metrical and cadenced–those are my dissipation. Tennyson by preference: ‘Maud,’ or ‘Idylls of the King’–poetry of the sound Victorian days; there is none later. Or Longfellow will rest me in a tired hour. Yes; for me, a book, a volume in the hand, held lightly between the fingers.”
Mr. Kinosling looked pleasantly at his fingers as he spoke, waving his hand in a curving gesture which brought it into the light of a window faintly illumined from the interior of the house. Then he passed those graceful fingers over his hair, and turned toward Penrod, who was perched upon the railing in a dark corner.
“The evening is touched with a slight coolness,” said Mr. Kinosling. “Perhaps I may request the little gentleman—-”
“B’gr-r-ruff!” coughed Mr. Schofield. “You’d better change your mind about a cigar.”
“No, I thank you. I was about to request the lit—-”
“Do try one,” Margaret urged. “I’m sure papa’s are nice ones. Do try—-”
“No, I thank you. I remarked a slight coolness in the air, and my hat is in the hallway. I was about to request—-”
“I’ll get it for you,” said Penrod suddenly.
“If you will be so good,” said Mr. Kinosling. “It is a black bowler hat, little gentleman, and placed upon a table in the hall.”
“I know where it is.” Penrod entered the door, and a feeling of relief, mutually experienced, carried from one to another of his three relatives their interchanged congratulations that he had recovered his sanity.
“‘The day is done, and the darkness,'” began Mr. Kinosling–and recited that poem entire. He followed it with “The Children’s Hour,” and after a pause, at the close, to allow his listeners time for a little reflection upon his rendition, he passed his hand again over his head, and called, in the direction of the doorway:
“I believe I will take my hat now, little gentleman.”
“Here it is,” said Penrod, unexpectedly climbing over the porch railing, in the other direction. His mother and father and Margaret had supposed him to be standing in the hallway out of deference, and because he thought it tactful not to interrupt the recitations. All of them remembered, later, that this supposed thoughtfulness on his part struck them as unnatural.
“Very good, little gentleman!” said Mr. Kinosling, and being somewhat chilled, placed the hat firmly upon his head, pulling it down as far as it would go. It had a pleasant warmth, which he noticed at once. The next instant, he noticed something else, a peculiar sensation of the scalp–a sensation which he was quite unable to define. He lifted his hand to take the hat off, and entered upon a strange experience: his hat seemed to have decided to remain where it was.
“Do you like Tennyson as much as Longfellow, Mr. Kinosling?” inquired Margaret.
“I–ah–I cannot say,” he returned absently. “I–ah–each has his own–ugh! flavour and savour, each his–ah–ah—-”
Struck by a strangeness in his tone, she peered at him curiously through the dusk. His outlines were indistinct, but she made out that his arms were, uplifted in a singular gesture. He seemed to be wrenching at his head.
“Is–is anything the matter?” she asked anxiously. “Mr. Kinosling, are you ill?”
“Not at–ugh!–all,” he replied, in the same odd tone. “I–ah–I believe–ugh!”
He dropped his hands from his hat, and rose. His manner was slightly agitated. “I fear I may have taken a trifling–ah–cold. I should–ah–perhaps be–ah–better at home. I will–ah–say good-night.”
At the steps, he instinctively lifted his hand to remove his hat, but did not do so, and, saying “Goodnight,” again in a frigid voice, departed with visible stiffness from that house, to return no more.
“Well, of all—-!” cried Mrs. Schofield, astounded. “What was the matter? He just went–like that!” She made a flurried gesture. “In heaven’s name, Margaret, what did you say to him?”
“I!” exclaimed Margaret indignantly. “Nothing! He just went!”
“Why, he didn’t even take off his hat when he said good- night!” said Mrs. Schofield.
Margaret, who had crossed to the doorway, caught the ghost of a whisper behind her, where stood Penrod.
“You bet he didn’t!”
He knew not that he was overheard.
A frightful suspicion flashed through Margaret’s mind–a suspicion that Mr. Kinosling’s hat would have to be either boiled off or shaved off. With growing horror she recalled Penrod’s long absence when he went to bring the hat.
“Penrod,” she cried, “let me see your hands!”
She had toiled at those hands herself late that afternoon, nearly scalding her own, but at last achieving a lily purity.
“Let me see your hands!”
She seized them.
Again they were tarred!