Proceeding homeward through the deepening twilight as rapidly as
possible, at a gait half skip and half canter, Penrod made up his mind
in what manner he would account for his long delay, and, as he drew
nearer, rehearsed in words the opening passage of his defence.
"Now see here," he determined to begin; "I do not wished to be blamed
for things I couldn't help, nor any other boy. I was going along the
street by a cottage and a lady put her head out of the window and said
her husband was drunk and whipping her and her little girl, and she
asked me wouldn't I come in and help hold him. So I went in and tried to
get hold of this drunken lady's husband where he was whipping their baby
daughter, but he wouldn't pay any attention, and I TOLD her I ought to
be getting home, but she kep' on askin' me to stay----"
At this point he reached the corner of his own yard, where a coincidence
not only checked the rehearsal of his eloquence but happily obviated all
occasion for it. A cab from the station drew up in front of the gate,
and there descended a troubled lady in black and a fragile little girl
about three. Mrs. Schofield rushed from the house and enfolded both in
hospitable arms.
They were Penrod's Aunt Clara and cousin, also Clara, from Dayton,
Illinois, and in the flurry of their arrival everybody forgot to put
Penrod to the question. It is doubtful, however, if he felt any relief;
there may have been even a slight, unconscious disappointment not
altogether dissimilar to that of an actor deprived of a good part.
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