"Where'd you get that wart on your finger?" he demanded severely.
"Which finger?" asked the mystified Penrod, extending his hand.
"The middle one."
"Where?"
"There!" exclaimed Rupe Collins, seizing and vigorously twisting the
wartless finger naively offered for his inspection.
"Quit!" shouted Penrod in agony. "QUEE-yut!"
"Say your prayers!" commanded Rupe, and continued to twist the luckless
finger until Penrod writhed to his knees.
"OW!" The victim, released, looked grievously upon the still painful
finger.
At this Rupe's scornful expression altered to one of contrition. "Well,
I declare!" he exclaimed remorsefully. "I didn't s'pose it would hurt.
Turn about's fair play; so now you do that to me."
He extended the middle finger of his left hand and Penrod promptly
seized it, but did not twist it, for he was instantly swung round with
his back to his amiable new acquaintance: Rupe's right hand operated
upon the back of Penrod's slender neck; Rupe's knee tortured the small
of Penrod's back.
"OW!" Penrod bent far forward involuntarily and went to his knees again.
"Lick dirt," commanded Rupe, forcing the captive's face to the sidewalk;
and the suffering Penrod completed this ceremony.
Mr. Collins evinced satisfaction by means of his horse laugh.
"You'd last jest about one day up at the Third!" he said. "You'd come
runnin' home, yellin' 'MOM-MUH, MOM-muh,' before recess was over!"
"No, I wouldn't," Penrod protested rather weakly, dusting his knees.
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