Schofield appeared at an open window upstairs, a book in his hand.
"Stop it!" he commanded. "Can't I stay home with a headache ONE morning
from the office without having to listen to--I never DID hear such
squawking!" He retired from the window, having too impulsively called
upon his Maker. Penrod, shocked and injured, entered the house, but
presently his voice was again audible as far as the front porch. He was
holding converse with his mother, somewhere in the interior.
"Well, what of it? Sam Williams told me his mother said if Bob ever did
think of getting married to Margaret, his mother said she'd like to know
what in the name o' goodness they expect to----"
Bang! Margaret thought it better to close the front door.
The next minute Penrod opened it. "I suppose you want the whole family
to get a sunstroke," he said reprovingly. "Keepin' every breath of air
out o' the house on a day like this!"
And he sat down implacably in the doorway.
The serious poetry of all languages has omitted the little brother;
and yet he is one of the great trials of love--the immemorial burden of
courtship. Tragedy should have found place for him, but he has been left
to the haphazard vignettist of Grub Street. He is the grave and
real menace of lovers; his head is sacred and terrible, his power
illimitable. There is one way--only one--to deal with him; but Robert
Williams, having a brother of Penrod's age, understood that way.
Robert had one dollar in the world.
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