Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  The footlights were aided by a “spot-light” from the rear of the hall; and the children were revealed in a blaze of glory.

  A hushed, multitudinous “O-OH” of admiration came from the decorous and delighted audience. Then the children sang feebly:

  “Chuldrun of the Tabul Round,

  Lit-tul knights and ladies we.

  Let our voy-siz all resound

  Faith and hope and charitee!”

  The Child King Arthur rose, extended his sceptre with the decisive gesture of a semaphore, and spake:

  “Each littul knight and lady born

  Has noble deeds to perform

  In thee child-world of shivullree,

  No matter how small his share may be.

  Let each advance and tell in turn

  What claim has each to knighthood earn.”

  The Child Sir Mordred, the villain of this piece, rose in his place at the table round, and piped the only lines ever written by Mrs. Lora Rewbush which Penrod Schofield could have pronounced without loathing. Georgie Bassett, a really angelic boy, had been selected for the role of Mordred. His perfect conduct had earned for him the sardonic sobriquet, “The Little Gentleman,” among his boy acquaintances. (Naturally he had no friends.) Hence the other boys supposed that he had been selected for the wicked Mordred as a reward of virtue. He declaimed serenely:

  “I hight Sir Mordred the Child, and I teach

  Lessons of selfishest evil, and reach

  Out into darkness. Thoughtless, unkind,

  And ruthless is Mordred, and unrefined.”

  The Child Mordred was properly rebuked and denied the accolade, though, like the others, he seemed to have assumed the title already. He made a plotter’s exit. Whereupon Maurice Levy rose, bowed, announced that he highted the Child Sir Galahad, and continued with perfect sang-froid:

  “I am the purest of the pure.

  I have but kindest thoughts each day.

  I give my riches to the poor,

  And follow in the Master’s way.”

  This elicited tokens of approval from the Child King Arthur, and he bade Maurice “stand forth” and come near the throne, a command obeyed with the easy grace of conscious merit.

  It was Penrod’s turn. He stepped back from his chair, the table between him and the audience, and began in a high, breathless monotone:

  “I hight Sir Lancelot du Lake, the Child,

  Gentul-hearted, meek, and mild.

  What though I’m but a littul child,

  Gentul-heartud, meek, and mild,

  I do my share though but — though but — —”

  Penrod paused and gulped. The voice of Mrs. Lora Rewbush was heard from the wings, prompting irritably, and the Child. Sir Lancelot repeated:

  “I do my share though but — though but a tot,

  I pray you knight Sir Lancelot!”

  This also met the royal favour, and Penrod was bidden to join Sir Galahad at the throne. As he crossed the stage, Mrs. Schofield whispered to Margaret:

  “That boy! He’s unpinned his mantle and fixed it to cover his whole costume. After we worked so hard to make it becoming!”

  “Never mind; he’ll have to take the cape off in a minute,” returned Margaret. She leaned forward suddenly, narrowing her eyes to see better. “What is that thing hanging about his left ankle?” she whispered uneasily. “How queer! He must have got tangled in something.”

  “Where?” asked Mrs. Schofield, in alarm.

  “His left foot. It makes him stumble. Don’t you see? It looks — it looks like an elephant’s foot!”

  The Child Sir Lancelot and the Child Sir Galahad clasped hands before their Child King. Penrod was conscious of a great uplift; in a moment he would have to throw aside his mantle, but even so he was protected and sheltered in the human garment of a man. His stage-fright had passed, for the audience was but an indistinguishable blur of darkness beyond the dazzling lights. His most repulsive speech (that in which he proclaimed himself a “tot”) was over and done with; and now at last the small, moist hand of the Child Sir Galahad lay within his own. Craftily his brown fingers stole from Maurice’s palm to the wrist. The two boys declaimed in concert:

  “We are two chuldrun of the Tabul Round

  Strewing kindness all a-round.

  With love and good deeds striving ever for the best,

  May our littul efforts e’er be blest.

  Two littul hearts we offer. See

  United in love, faith, hope, and char — OW!”

  The conclusion of the duet was marred. The Child Sir Galahad suddenly stiffened, and, uttering an irrepressible shriek of anguish, gave a brief exhibition of the contortionist’s art. (“HE’S TWISTIN’ MY WRIST! DERN YOU, LEGGO!”)

  The voice of Mrs. Lora Rewbush was again heard from the wings; it sounded bloodthirsty. Penrod released his victim; and the Child King Arthur, somewhat disconcerted, extended his sceptre and, with the assistance of the enraged prompter, said:

  “Sweet child-friends of the Tabul Round,

  In brotherly love and kindness abound,

  Sir Lancelot, you have spoken well,

  Sir Galahad, too, as clear as bell.

  So now pray doff your mantles gay.

  You shall be knighted this very day.”

  And Penrod doffed his mantle.

  Simultaneously, a thick and vasty gasp came from the audience, as from five hundred bathers in a wholly unexpected surf. This gasp was punctuated irregularly, over the auditorium, by imperfectly subdued screams both of dismay and incredulous joy, and by two dismal shrieks. Altogether it was an extraordinary sound, a sound never to be forgotten by any one who heard it. It was almost as unforgettable as the sight which caused it; the word “sight” being here used in its vernacular sense, for Penrod, standing unmantled and revealed in all the medieval and artistic glory of the janitor’s blue overalls, falls within its meaning.

  The janitor was a heavy man, and his overalls, upon Penrod, were merely oceanic. The boy was at once swaddled and lost within their blue gulfs and vast saggings; and the left leg, too hastily rolled up, had descended with a distinctively elephantine effect, as Margaret had observed. Certainly, the Child Sir Lancelot was at least a sight.

  It is probable that a great many in that hall must have had, even then, a consciousness that they were looking on at History in the Making. A supreme act is recognizable at sight: it bears the birthmark of immortality. But Penrod, that marvellous boy, had begun to declaim, even with the gesture of flinging off his mantle for the accolade:

  “I first, the Child Sir Lancelot du Lake,

  Will volunteer to knighthood take,

  And kneeling here before your throne

  I vow to — —”

  He finished his speech unheard. The audience had recovered breath, but had lost self-control, and there ensued something later described by a participant as a sort of cultured riot.

  The actors in the “pageant” were not so dumfounded by Penrod’s costume as might have been expected. A few precocious geniuses perceived that the overalls were the Child Lancelot’s own comment on maternal intentions; and these were profoundly impressed: they regarded him with the grisly admiration of young and ambitious criminals for a jail-mate about to be distinguished by hanging. But most of the children simply took it to be the case (a little strange, but not startling) that Penrod’s mother had dressed him like that — which is pathetic. They tried to go on with the “pageant.”

  They made a brief, manful effort. But the irrepressible outbursts from the audience bewildered them; every time Sir Lancelot du Lake the Child opened his mouth, the great, shadowy house fell into an uproar, and the children into confusion. Strong women and brave girls in the audience went out into the lobby, shrieking and clinging to one another. Others remained, rocking in their seats, helpless and spent. The neighbourhood of Mrs. Schofield and Margaret became, tactfully, a desert. Friends of the author went behind the scenes and encountered a hitherto unknown phase of Mrs. Lor
a Rewbush; they said, afterward, that she hardly seemed to know what she was doing. She begged to be left alone somewhere with Penrod Schofield, for just a little while.

  They led her away.

  CHAPTER VI EVENING

  THE SUN WAS setting behind the back fence (though at a considerable distance) as Penrod Schofield approached that fence and looked thoughtfully up at the top of it, apparently having in mind some purpose to climb up and sit there. Debating this, he passed his fingers gently up and down the backs of his legs; and then something seemed to decide him not to sit anywhere. He leaned against the fence, sighed profoundly, and gazed at Duke, his wistful dog.

  The sigh was reminiscent: episodes of simple pathos were passing before his inward eye. About the most painful was the vision of lovely Marjorie Jones, weeping with rage as the Child Sir Lancelot was dragged, insatiate, from the prostrate and howling Child Sir Galahad, after an onslaught delivered the precise instant the curtain began to fall upon the demoralized “pageant.” And then — oh, pangs! oh, woman! — she slapped at the ruffian’s cheek, as he was led past her by a resentful janitor; and turning, flung her arms round the Child Sir Galahad’s neck.

  “PENROD SCHOFIELD, DON’T YOU DARE EVER SPEAK TO ME AGAIN AS LONG AS YOU LIVE!” Maurice’s little white boots and gold tassels had done their work.

  At home the late Child Sir Lancelot was consigned to a locked clothes-closet pending the arrival of his father. Mr. Schofield came and, shortly after, there was put into practice an old patriarchal custom. It is a custom of inconceivable antiquity: probably primordial, certainly prehistoric, but still in vogue in some remaining citadels of the ancient simplicities of the Republic.

  And now, therefore, in the dusk, Penrod leaned against the fence and sighed.

  His case is comparable to that of an adult who could have survived a similar experience. Looking back to the sawdust-box, fancy pictures this comparable adult a serious and inventive writer engaged in congenial literary activities in a private retreat. We see this period marked by the creation of some of the most virile passages of a Work dealing exclusively in red corpuscles and huge primal impulses. We see this thoughtful man dragged from his calm seclusion to a horrifying publicity; forced to adopt the stage and, himself a writer, compelled to exploit the repulsive sentiments of an author not only personally distasteful to him but whose whole method and school in belles lettres he despises.

  We see him reduced by desperation and modesty to stealing a pair of overalls. We conceive him to have ruined, then, his own reputation, and to have utterly disgraced his family; next, to have engaged in the duello and to have been spurned by his lady-love, thus lost to him (according to her own declaration) forever. Finally, we must behold: imprisonment by the authorities; the third degree and flagellation.

  We conceive our man decided that his career had been perhaps too eventful. Yet Penrod had condensed all of it into eight hours.

  It appears that he had at least some shadowy perception of a recent fulness of life, for, as he leaned against the fence, gazing upon his wistful Duke, he sighed again and murmured aloud:

  “WELL, HASN’T THIS BEEN A DAY!”

  But in a little while a star came out, freshly lighted, from the highest part of the sky, and Penrod, looking up, noticed it casually and a little drowsily. He yawned. Then he sighed once more, but not reminiscently: evening had come; the day was over. It was a sigh of pure ennui.

  CHAPTER VII EVILS OF DRINK

  NEXT DAY, PENROD acquired a dime by a simple and antique process which was without doubt sometimes practised by the boys of Babylon. When the teacher of his class in Sunday-school requested the weekly contribution, Penrod, fumbling honestly (at first) in the wrong pockets, managed to look so embarrassed that the gentle lady told him not to mind, and said she was often forgetful herself. She was so sweet about it that, looking into the future, Penrod began to feel confident of a small but regular income.

  At the close of the afternoon services he did not go home, but proceeded to squander the funds just withheld from China upon an orgy of the most pungently forbidden description. In a Drug Emporium, near the church, he purchased a five-cent sack of candy consisting for the most part of the heavily flavoured hoofs of horned cattle, but undeniably substantial, and so generously capable of resisting solution that the purchaser must needs be avaricious beyond reason who did not realize his money’s worth.

  Equipped with this collation, Penrod contributed his remaining nickel to a picture show, countenanced upon the seventh day by the legal but not the moral authorities. Here, in cozy darkness, he placidly insulted his liver with jaw-breaker upon jaw-breaker from the paper sack, and in a surfeit of content watched the silent actors on the screen.

  One film made a lasting impression upon him. It depicted with relentless pathos the drunkard’s progress; beginning with his conversion to beer in the company of loose travelling men; pursuing him through an inexplicable lapse into evening clothes and the society of some remarkably painful ladies, next, exhibiting the effects of alcohol on the victim’s domestic disposition, the unfortunate man was seen in the act of striking his wife and, subsequently, his pleading baby daughter with an abnormally heavy walking-stick. Their flight — through the snow — to seek the protection of a relative was shown, and finally, the drunkard’s picturesque behaviour at the portals of a madhouse.

  So fascinated was Penrod that he postponed his departure until this film came round again, by which time he had finished his unnatural repast and almost, but not quite, decided against following the profession of a drunkard when he grew up.

  Emerging, satiated, from the theatre, a public timepiece before a jeweller’s shop confronted him with an unexpected dial and imminent perplexities. How was he to explain at home these hours of dalliance? There was a steadfast rule that he return direct from Sunday-school; and Sunday rules were important, because on that day there was his father, always at home and at hand, perilously ready for action. One of the hardest conditions of boyhood is the almost continuous strain put upon the powers of invention by the constant and harassing necessity for explanations of every natural act.

  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.

  In the course of some really necessary preparations for dinner he stepped from the bathroom into the pink-and-white bedchamber of his sister, and addressed her rather thickly through a towel.

  “When’d mamma find out Aunt Clara and Cousin Clara were coming?”

  “Not till she saw them from the window. She just happened to look out as they drove up. Aunt Clara telegraphed this morning, but it wasn’t deliv
ered.”

  “How long they goin’ to stay?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Penrod ceased to rub his shining face, and thoughtfully tossed the towel through the bathroom door. “Uncle John won’t try to make ’em come back home, I guess, will he?” (Uncle John was Aunt Clara’s husband, a successful manufacturer of stoves, and his lifelong regret was that he had not entered the Baptist ministry.) “He’ll let ’em stay here quietly, won’t he?”

  “What ARE you talking about?” demanded Margaret, turning from her mirror. “Uncle John sent them here. Why shouldn’t he let them stay?”

  Penrod looked crestfallen. “Then he hasn’t taken to drink?”

  “Certainly not!” She emphasized the denial with a pretty peal of soprano laughter.

  “Then why,” asked her brother gloomily, “why did Aunt Clara look so worried when she got here?”

  “Good gracious! Don’t people worry about anything except somebody’s drinking? Where did you get such an idea?”

  “Well,” he persisted, “you don’t KNOW it ain’t that.”

  She laughed again, wholeheartedly. “Poor Uncle John! He won’t even allow grape juice or ginger ale in his house. They came because they were afraid little Clara might catch the measles. She’s very delicate, and there’s such an epidemic of measles among the children over in Dayton the schools had to be closed. Uncle John got so worried that last night he dreamed about it; and this morning he couldn’t stand it any longer and packed them off over here, though he thinks its wicked to travel on Sunday. And Aunt Clara was worried when she got here because they’d forgotten to check her trunk and it will have to be sent by express. Now what in the name of the common sense put it into your head that Uncle John had taken to — —”

  “Oh, nothing.” He turned lifelessly away and went downstairs, a new-born hope dying in his bosom. Life seems so needlessly dull sometimes.