And why should he not have been injured and perplexed? To a boy, a visitor is a visitor for only the first hour or so; after that, you know him about as well as you know anybody. Penrod was unable to perceive that his family was being indulgent toward Ronald because the latter was a guest in the house, and, if he had perceived this, the point of etiquette involved would have seemed founded upon vicious unreason; he could not understand why a guest should be treated better than anybody else. But he saw, all too plainly, that Ronald was behaving in a way that would have insured punishment for Penrod Schofield — and here were Penrod’s parents making excuses for Ronald and calling him “good” and “nice”! Evidently they liked this sort of thing.
“Pop-puh!” screamed Ronald.
“One — two — three — four—” Mr. Passloe began ominously.
“Pop-puh! Oh, please, please, please, please! Papa, you know how I want to go to that pitcher-show! It wouldn’t hurt you to let me go! What harm would it do you — unless you don’t want me to have a nice time! Papa, you don’t want me to! You don’t! You don’t! Oh, Pop-puh, please, please! PLEASE!”
His passion had become acute. Mr. Passloe groaned, “Oh, good heavens!” and plunged his hand into his pocket, drawing forth two dimes.
“C’m on, Penrod!” said Ronald briskly.
“Can I, Mamma?”
“Well — since Ronald wants to go so much,” Mrs. Schofield said affably.
And, as the two boys passed out of the front door, Penrod happened to sneeze, and therefore drew forth his handkerchief; but before he had time to make it of any service to him, Ronald, with a malicious yell, snatched it out of his hand, and ran carolling down the walk and through the gateway — a sprightly soul with never a care in the world.
CHAPTER VI
LITTLE RONALD
THIS SNATCHING HABIT of Ronald’s, jocular as it was, palled so heavily upon Penrod the next morning that he withdrew from his visitor’s company, and, leaving Ronald the whole of the Schofields’ yard as a playground, put several fences between himself and the snatcher, then emerged to the comforting, secluded alley, where he walked, inwardly communing. Ere long he encountered one Herman, who, in recognition of summer’s approach, walked with brown feet bare and would go thus unshod until October. To-day his feet moved slowly in the alley dust, for Herman was preoccupied with a turtle, an intelligent animal about the size of the palm of the brown hand upon which it rested.
“Yay!” shouted Penrod, his troubles forgotten. “Where’d you get that turtle, Herman?”
“I trade him off’n Cubena Howliss,” Herman replied. “Who’s Cubena Howliss?”
“Cubena live ovuh on canal bank,” said Herman. “She say, ‘Look, what settin’ right in pie-pan on kitchum flo’ las’ night!’ She say she mos’ yell her neck off. So she say she don’ want him so much, but she ain’ go’ give no turkle away to nobody. I trade’ him off’n her.”
“What’d you trade?”
“I tuck an’ give her a good piece o’ kin’lin’-wood an’ a nice bode I foun’ ovuh where’s buil’n’ a house, an’ a nice knife-blade.”
Penrod touched the turtle’s head, which had protruded from the shell adventurously. “Yay!” he shouted. “A turtle’s mighty smart, Herman. All you got to do is just to touch ’em on the head or their tail or one o’ their feet or anything, and they’ll stick ’em right back in again, unless you grab it and hold on so’s they can’t.”
“My goo’ness, you think I don’ know that!” Herman exclaimed. “Whut I goin’ own a turkle fer ef I don’ know that much about ’em? Whut I want go an’ han’ ovuh ‘at stick o’ kin’lin’-wood an”at bode an’ nice knife-blade to Cubena Howliss fer, ef I don’ know no me”bout a turkle ‘n what you say I do?”
“I didn’t say anything, Herman,” Penrod protested. “What you goin’ to do with him, Herman?”
“I’m go’ cut my ‘nitials on his back, an”en I’m go’ to put him in a bucket in ow woodshed an’ wait fer him to grow. When he git big, my ‘nitials go’ to grow same as he do. Be two feet long some day!”
Penrod’s eyes glowed and enlarged. The idea he had just absorbed was more than fascinating; it was compelling. “Look here, Herman,” he said breathlessly. “Has this Cubena Howliss got any more turtles? Where’s she live?”
“She ain’ got no mo’,” said Herman. “‘Iss here turkle on’y one she own, an’ she ain’ got air’ one lef’.”
“My!” Penrod exclaimed. “I would like to own that turtle, Herman! What’ll you trade for him?”
“Ain’ go’ trade fer him. I done trade to git him. Ain’ go’ trade to lose him.”
“Why not?”
Herman was both obdurate and unenlightening; he seemed to love the sound of the words he had just uttered, and to consider them sufficient. “I done trade to git him,” he repeated. “Ain’ go’ trade to lose him!”
“Aw, Herman!” Penrod remonstrated.
“I done trade to git him. Ain’ go’ trade to lose him!”
“How much’ll you take?”
Herman plunged into calculations. “Well, suh, ‘at nice bode uz wuff dime; ‘at knife-blade wuff nickel— ‘at’s fifteem — an”at nice kin’lin’-wood uz wuff two cents easy.’At’s sevumteem. I take sevumteem cents fer ‘iss here turkle.”
“I’ll buy him,” said Penrod eagerly. “I’ll give you the seventeen cents for him.”
“You got ‘at money?” Herman was surprised; perhaps a little skeptical.
“No; but I will have when Papa comes home at noon. I can get him to give it to me.” He smiled reassuringly — almost swaggeringly, in fact, and added, “Easy!”
“You kin?”
“Yes. And, look here, Herman: don’t you go and cut your ‘nitials on this turtle, Herman, because he’ll be my turtle soon as I pay you for him, and I don’t want anybody else’s ‘nitials on any turtle of mine except my own ‘nitials. You won’t cut yours on him, will you?”
“Tell you whut I do,” said Herman: “I wait till six o’clock’s even’.’F you pay me down ‘at sevumteem cents ‘fo six ‘clock’s even’, he ain’ go’ to have nuff’m ‘tall cut on him. You don’ pay me down ‘at sevumteem cents ‘fo’ no six ‘clock’s even’, I’m go’ to begin cuttin’.’At’s all a way I’m willin’ to fix it.”
“Oh, that’s all right!” Penrod assured him. “I’ll have that seventeen cents long before any ole six o’clock. Don’t you worry!” And the contract thus comprehended by both the party of the first part and the party of the second part, Herman proceeded homeward with the property under consideration, while Penrod continued his walk in the alley. His spirits had risen decidedly. Already he felt the turtle to be virtually his own, and he had been convinced by the mere sight of it — in another boy’s possession — that a turtle is the most delightful animal in the world. He wondered why he had never owned one before, and he determined never to be without one again.
His vision roamed the future; he saw the little turtle growing year by year, the initials, P.S., growing with him. He saw the turtle following him about the yard, large, docile, obedient. He would train the turtle to do tricks; the turtle and Duke and Walter-John (borrowed) would do tricks together. He would invite a large croAvd — and Marjorie Jones — to a show in the stable. He saw himself as ringmaster coming forward with Duke and Walter-John upon one side of him and the turtle upon the other. “Laydeez and gentlemun, permit me to interodoos to your attainshon—” There was a warmth in his bosom as he walked. Already affection for this turtle was springing in the heart of Penrod Schofield.
A little before the hour for lunch, he slid over the back fence, and made his way into the house without being noticed by Ronald, who, squirt-gun in hand, was treacherously approaching Duke in the front yard. Penrod ascended to his father’s room and found both his parents there, engaged in conversation.
“Papa,” he began at once, “I’d like you to please give me seventeen cents.”
“Would you?” Mr.
Schofield returned unenthusiastically.
“Yes, Papa, please.”
“That’s a strange coincidence,” said the father. “I’ve just been wishing some one would give me seventeen thousand dollars; but I don’t believe anybody will.”
“Papa, please give me seventeen cents.”
“No, sir.”
“Papa—”
Mrs. Schofield interrupted. “What do you want seventeen cents for?”
“To buy a turtle.”
“A what?” Mr. Schofield inquired.
“That coloured boy Herman’s got the finest turtle I ever did see,” Penrod explained. “He traded some good kindling-wood and a nice board and a nice knife-blade to Cubena Howliss for it, and the board was worth ten cents, and the knife-blade was worth five cents, and the wood was worth two cents, and that makes seventeen cents. He won’t take a cent under seventeen cents for the turtle.”
Mr. Schofield had begun to wear a look of irritation. “He won’t?” he inquired dangerously.
“No, sir; and I do want that turtle.”
“Well, you can’t have it. It’s time you learned you can’t spend money idiotically, no matter how much or how little. You can find all the turtles you want, anyhow.”
“I never did find a turtle in my life,” Penrod asserted stoutly, “except one time at a picnic, and you made me put it back in the creek.” His tone became more insistent. “Papa, please give me seventeen cents.”
“No.”
“Papa, it’s the finest turtle I ever—”
“That’s enough! You don’t need a turtle! What on earth do you want a turtle for, anyhow? We don’t want a nasty turtle around the house. You can’t—”
“It could sleep in the stable,” Penrod urged. “I’d fix a place for it. It wouldn’t be any trouble or anything to you, Papa.”
Mr. Schofield raised his voice. “Didn’t I tell you you couldn’t have it?”
But now Penrod’s tone became almost excruciatingly plaintive. “Papa, please give me seventeen cents! That’s all I want you to do. Can’t you just give me seven teen cents?”
“No!”
“Pop-puh!”
“No!”
“Pop -puh!”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Papa, please, please, please—”
Mr. Schofield sent a sharp glance at his wife, who had begun to look serious beyond her wont. “What’s the matter with him?”
Before Mrs. Schofield could express an opinion, Penrod intervened. He uttered a sudden howl; a passion took possession of him. “Pop-puh!” he bleated. “I got to get that turtle! I haf to have seventeen cents! What harm would it do you for me to have that turtle? You don’t want me to have a nice time with that turtle! You don’t! Oh, Papa — oh! — Pop-puh — oh! — please! Please, please, please, please, PLEASE!”
Mr. Schofield rushed upon his son. By the shoulders he caught Penrod, and the latter found it impossible to continue his imitation, one all the more remarkable because it was only partially a conscious imitation. Most of it was instinctive.
His father shook him. “By George, he’s caught it!” and he impelled the unfortunate Penrod toward a door that Mrs. Schofield sorrowfully opened, in response to a grim command from her husband. It was the door of a drear and dark closet, utterly without resources to aid an inmate in passing the time.
“You stay in there till you get over it!” Mr. Schofield said, as he closed this painful door. Then he turned to his wife. “By George, we want to cure him of that, right at the start! We don’t want to be driven as crazy as poor cousin Henry.”
Penrod was released by Mrs. Schofield subsequent to his father’s departure after lunch. He was allowed to partake of some chilled remains of the meal but informed of a decree that he should curtail his activities until four o’clock; he was to stay indoors until that hour. Thereafter, he could go out; but not until the next day outside the yard. And upon this additional sentence, he spake not, yet his eyes were fierce and almost unbearable.
He underwent his penalties to the full, enigmatically looking out of windows most of the long, horrid time, his expression merely concentrating a little when across his field of vision Ronald went sweeping over the lawn, in further squirt-gun persecutions of Duke. But at eight seconds after four o’clock, Penrod threw open the rear doors of the stable and gazed earnestly at the abode of Herman across the alley.
“Yay, Herman!” Penrod shouted.
Herman appeared.
“Herman, I can’t come out. I got to stay in our yard till to-morrow; but the stable’s just the same as the yard. Where’s that turtle?”
Herman’s air was morbid; injuries lay heavy upon him. “You kin’ keep ‘at sevumteem cents,” he said. “Hain’t no turkle! I laid him down nice in dish-pan. Pappy sen’ me to drug sto’ to git him some ‘at brain-medicine; Mammy tuck ‘at turkle an’ frew him in ash-pile. Man come ‘long; clean up ash-pile. Tuck an’ tuck ‘at turkle an’ done ca’y him off! I tell Mammy ‘at’s nice way treat sevumteem-cent turkle, a’n’ she done slosh me ovuh my haid wif’ a dish-towel. Go on keep you’ sevumteem cents; I ain’ got no turkle!”
Penrod sighed. “I only wanted to look at him, anyway, Herman. I couldn’t get the seventeen cents. I tried but — I couldn’t fix it.”
“Well, Mammy done fix my turkle,” the coloured boy said, withdrawing gloomily.
Penrod sighed again, closed the stable doors, and stood in the melancholy half-darkness of the carriage-house to ponder. Then a pleasant aroma came slenderly upon the air, warm and spicy, arousing some interest in the dejected boy; and he followed it to its source in the kitchen.
“G’wan away!” said Della. “Thim little cakes is f’r dinner, an’ if yer pa eats ’em the way he use’ly does, th’r ‘ain’t more’n enough to go round.”
“Oh, just one, Della!” Penrod pleaded. The little cakes were fat brown little cakes, not flat cookies. They were beautiful to look upon, exquisite to smell. “Can’t I have just one?”
“If I give you wan, will you eat it an’ g’wan awray?”
“Honest!”
Della gave him one. “Well, keep yer word f’r wanst!” she said.
Penrod lifted the cake toward his mouth, and, as he did so, a yelp from Duke was heard outside the kitchen window, followed by the shrill triumphant cry of Ronald. Then, at this sound, reminder of the cause of all his woes, Penrod’s hand, holding the cae, paused. A strange look came upon the face of Penrod.
“Well, if yer goin’ to eat it, why don’t you eat it an’ g’wan away?” Della inquired.
“Guess I — I’ll wait,” Penrod muttered hastily, and, with the cake intact, walked quickly out of the kitchen and into the dining-room.
Here, engaged in a delicate semi-chemical operation, with the sideboard as laboratory, he remained not more than seven busy minutes, and when he issued forth the cake was still apparently intact; certainly he had not taken a bite of it. He went out into the yard and displayed himself before Ronald.
“Hey, Penrod!” cried the small visitor. “Watch me! I’ve learned how I can get Duke so mad with my little gun he almost bites himself!”
“I don’t care anything about your ole gun,” Penrod said languidly. “I got sumpthing better to think about.”
“What you got?”
Penrod carelessly displayed the cake; in fact, his carelessness was incredible after the lessons Ronald had taught him. Penrod gazed absently skyward, opened his mouth, and, with thumb and forefinger, delicately lifted the cake toward the orifice.
Ronald’s bright eyes emitted a purposeful gleam; he swooped like an arrow; his small hand shot out at Penrod’s, and, in a flash, he had the cake and was away, his taunting cackle streaming behind him.
“I’ll catch you this time!” Penrod shouted. “I been practising running, and I got you now. I’m goin’ to take that cake away from you or break my neck!”
To settle this point and insure the latter alternative, Ronald, even in
the act of ducking under Penrod’s clumsily reaching arm, opened his mouth to its capacity, plunged the whole cake therein and with one great masticatory action attempted to swallow the thing in the forceful manner of an anaconda.
He did not succeed. Instead, he uttered a dreadful cry; his eyes protruded, and, after a period of terrible activity, he turned the squirt-gun straight into his mouth and there discharged it. This seeming but to increase his distress, he rushed, bellowing, to the hydrant and ardently applied his mouth thereto.
Showers of water sparkled up into the air, descending with rainbow effects lovely to the gaze of Penrod, and, in the midst of this aquatic display, Ronald contorted himself into grotesque shapes of protest, squealing like some wild thing of the woods.
Greater suffering finally convinced him that water was not the remedy for his ailment, and he tried great drafts of air taken between heroic gasps. Then, relieved no more by air than by water, he gesticulated insanely for a time and finally became coherent in one vociferous word.
“Fop-puh!”
He ran to the house, and the kitchen door slammed behind him; but still from the interior could be heard his searching appeals to his parent. Penrod stood listening for a few moments, while a better and a nobler expression shed a radiance upon his simple features; it was the look that comes to one who, after great turbulence, finds peace in his own soul. Nevertheless, there slowly penetrated an apprehension that the Authorities might consider that he had gone too far, and he sought seclusion in the disused hayloft of the stable.
He returned to the house unostentatiously at dusk, softly ascending by the rear stairs to his own room. But his mother had heard him, and she came in. The faded light of a western window revealed a small, meek form, sitting with folded hands.
“Ma’am?” he said gently.
“What on earth did you do to Ronald?”
“Nothing.”
“He says you poisoned him. He came in screaming, and he wanted us to send for the doctor, but his papa wouldn’t. Then he insisted on’being put to bed. What did you do to him?”
“I didn’t do anything.”
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 439