By the time Penrod returned from chasing Duke to the next corner, Verman had the long, black snake down from the rafter where its active head had taken refuge, with the rest of it dangling; and both boys agreed that Mrs. Williams's cat must certainly be able to "see SOME, anyway", through the meshes of the stocking.
"Well," said Penrod, "it's gettin' pretty near dark, what with all this bother and mess we been havin' around here, and I expeck as soon as I get this good ole broom-handle fixed out of the rake for you, Verman, it'll be about time to begin what we had to go and take all this trouble FOR."
. . . . Mr. Schofield had brought an old friend home to dinner with him: "Dear old Joe Gilling," he called this friend when introducing him to Mrs. Schofield. Mr. Gilling, as Mrs. Schofield was already informed by telephone, had just happened to turn up in town that day, and had called on his classmate at the latter's office. The two had not seen each other in eighteen years.
Mr. Gilling was a tall man, clad highly in the mode, and brought to a polished and powdered finish by barber and manicurist; but his colour was peculiar, being almost unhumanly florid, and, as Mrs. Schofield afterward claimed to have noticed, his eyes "wore a nervous, apprehensive look", his hands were tremulous, and his manner was "queer and jerky"--at least, that is how she defined it.
She was not surprised to hear him state that he was travelling for his health and not upon business. He had not been really well for several years, he said.
At that, Mr. Schofield laughed and slapped him heartily on the back.
"Oh, mercy!" Mr. Gilling cried, leaping in his chair. "What IS the matter?"
"Nothing!" Mr. Schofield laughed. "I just slapped you the way we used to slap each other on the campus. What I was going to say was that you have no business being a bachelor. With all your money, and nothing to do but travel and sit around hotels and clubs, no wonder you've grown bilious."
"Oh, no; I'm not bilious," Mr. Gilling said uncomfortably. "I'm not bilious at all."
"You ought to get married," Mr. Schofield returned. "You ought--"
He paused, for Mr. Gilling had jumped again. "What's the trouble, Joe?"
"Nothing. I thought perhaps--perhaps you were going to slap me on the back again."
"Not this time," Mr. Schofield said, renewing his laughter.
"Well, is dinner about ready?" he asked, turning to his wife.
"Where are Margaret and Penrod?"
"Margaret's just come in," Mrs. Schofield answered. "She'll be down in a minute, and Penrod's around somewhere."
"Penrod?" Mr. Gilling repeated curiously, in his nervous, serious way. "What is Penrod?"
And at this, Mrs. Schofield joined in her husband's laughter. Mr. Schofield explained.
"Penrod's our young son," he said. "He's not much for looks, maybe; but he's been pretty good lately, and sometimes we're almost inclined to be proud of him. You'll see him in a minute, old Joe!"
Old Joe saw him even sooner. Instantly, as Mr. Schofield finished his little prediction, the most shocking uproar ever heard in that house burst forth in the kitchen. Distinctly Irish shrieks unlimited came from that quarter--together with the clashing of hurled metal and tin, the appealing sound of breaking china, and the hysterical barking of a dog.
