"Where are you, Penrod?" the parent asked, looking about.
"Here," said Penrod meekly.
Stooping, Mr. Schofield discovered his son squatting under the piano,
near an open window--his wistful Duke lying beside him.
"What are you doing there?"
"Me?"
"Why under the piano?"
"Well," the boy returned, with grave sweetness, "I was just kind of
sitting here--thinking."
"All right." Mr. Schofield, rather touched, returned to the digestion of
a murder, his back once more to the piano; and Penrod silently drew
from beneath his jacket (where he had slipped it simultaneously with
the sneeze) a paper-backed volume entitled: "Slimsy, the Sioux City
Squealer, or, 'Not Guilty, Your Honor.'"
In this manner the reading-club continued in peace, absorbed, contented,
the world well forgot--until a sudden, violently irritated slam-bang of
the front door startled the members; and Mrs. Schofield burst into the
room and threw herself into a chair, moaning.
"What's the matter, mamma?" asked her husband laying aside his paper.
"Henry Passloe Schofield," returned the lady, "I don't know what IS to
be done with that boy; I do NOT!"
"You mean Penrod?"
"Who else could I mean?" She sat up, exasperated, to stare at him.
"Henry Passloe Schofield, you've got to take this matter in your
hands--it's beyond me!"
"Well, what has he----"
"Last night I got to thinking," she began rapidly, "about what Clara
told us--thank Heaven she and Margaret and little Clara have gone to tea
at Cousin Charlotte's!--but they'll be home soon--about what she said
about Miss Spence----"
"You mean about Penrod's being a comfort?"
"Yes, and I kept thinking and thinking and thinking about it till I
couldn't stand it any----"
"By GEORGE!" shouted Mr.
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