"Penrod," she said gravely, "what excuse have you to offer before I
report your case to the principal?"
The word "principal" struck him to the vitals. Grand Inquisitor, Grand
Khan, Sultan, Emperor, Tsar, Caesar Augustus--these are comparable. He
stopped squirming instantly, and sat rigid.
"I want an answer. Why did you shout those words at me?"
"Well," he murmured, "I was just--thinking."
"Thinking what?" she asked sharply.
"I don't know."
"That won't do!"
He took his left ankle in his right hand and regarded it helplessly.
"That won't do, Penrod Schofield," she repeated severely. "If that is
all the excuse you have to offer I shall report your case this instant!"
And she rose with fatal intent.
But Penrod was one of those whom the precipice inspires. "Well, I HAVE
got an excuse."
"Well"--she paused impatiently--"what is it?"
He had not an idea, but he felt one coming, and replied automatically,
in a plaintive tone:
"I guess anybody that had been through what I had to go through, last
night, would think they had an excuse."
Miss Spence resumed her seat, though with the air of being ready to leap
from it instantly.
"What has last night to do with your insolence to me this morning?"
"Well, I guess you'd see," he returned, emphasizing the plaintive note,
"if you knew what I know."
"Now, Penrod," she said, in a kinder voice, "I have a high regard for
your mother and father, and it would hurt me to distress them, but you
must either tell me what was the matter with you or I'll have to take
you to Mrs.
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