Thus, Verman called forth upon the night air: “Oh Mihhuh Habe hippum om hump hep! He hippum om hump hep wi mow,” which Penrod and Herman, lurking out of sight of the shadowed person, were sufficiently familiar with the Vermanic cipher to interpret: “Ole Mister Dade sittin’ on front steps! He sittin’ on front steps right now!”
And when Mr. Dade would almost walk over Verman upon the threshold of the Young Men’s Christian Association building, Verman, in the very act of extricating himself, would freely and loudly shout, “He hum howp!” or, “He hoe him!” whereupon Herman, posted within hearing, would relay the message to George B. Jashber round an alley corner: “He cornin’ out!” or, “He goin’ in!”
Herman was the only person who understood Verman at all readily, though Penrod, through familiarity, could at times decipher Verman’s meanings with fair results. However, George B. Jashber sometimes lost patience with his talented assistant during the ceremony known to George B. and Jim and Bill as “office”. Penrod’s continuing studies of detectives led direct to this institution. Penrod would sit in the wheelbarrow in the carriage-house, with sheets of paper before him upon a box, and he would frown and take notes while Herman and Verman “reported”. Herman’s report was usually simple and uninspired; but Verman loved to talk. He found his opportunity upon these occasions, and, with eyes dilating and gestures as unintelligible as his utterance, he would make a report that seldom failed to shatter George B. Jashber’s feeble power of endurance. Nor was his volubility checked by a mere, “That’s plenty!” or, “Here, f’r heaven’s sakes, can’t you quit?” Verman would go on, becoming shriller and louder and happier all the while, until George B. Jashber stamped the floor and rudely shouted, “Oh, shut up!”
When quiet (save for Verman’s giggle) was restored, “What’s he been talkin’ about, Herman?” Penrod would ask.
“Nuff’m. Dess all time say same fing he done say firs’ time he say it.”
Nevertheless, Penrod compiled and kept (usually in the sawdust box) something that stood for a record of the movements of Herbert Hamilton Dade; and this document, though fragmentary, must at least have satisfied the typical movie and short-story detective who was its inspiration.
One morning, Penrod showed a recent page of the “report” to Marjorie Jones, and, standing by, watched her in his most sidelong manner as she read it. She read it aloud, of necessity slowly, and a little bit too much in the tone of one conscientious over a task at school.
“‘Office’,” she began. “‘George B. Jashber. Report. Report of Bill and Jim. We got to catch this cook—’”
“Crook!”
“What is a crook, Penrod?” Marjorie asked, not profoundly interested.
“You go on readin’. You’ll see.”
Marjorie proceeded. “‘We got to catch this cook’ — crook, I mean— ‘and keep on the trail’ — trail, I guess it means— ‘trail, night-and daytime. Jim report. The scoddel — scowendel — scondrel — the scondrel went to get his diner — dinner — at a place where it says good meals seventy-five cents. Bill report. The scounderel talk to the crook with the false black whick — whicksers—’”
“Whiskers! My goodness, Marjorie, don’t you know—”
“‘Whiskers’,” Marjorié’went on, “‘Whiskers down in the barber stairs. George B. Jashber report. I was with Bill. The crooks said it was cool in the barber and not much news the one with false wh — whiskers said he got his hair cut. End of report.’”
“Hand it back!” Penrod said, and replaced the report in the inner pocket of his jacket.
“What does it mean, Penrod?” Marjorie asked politely, and, except for her politeness, her expression inclined toward a vacancy that piqued George B. Jashber. “Is it something you play all by yourself?”
This more sharply piqued him. “‘Play’!” he echoed morosely. “I guess if you knew sumpthing about it, you wouldn’t talk so much! It’s a perty danger’s biznuss.”
“What like?” she inquired mildly.
“Well, you know what I showed you that day?”
“What day?”
Penrod jumped up from the grass where they were sitting in Marjorie’s yard. He began to walk toward the gate. “All right!” she called after him. “If you want to go home mad, ‘stead of telling me what it is, I don’t care!” Upon this, Penrod hesitated, halted, then came back and sat beside her again. “You know what I showed you,” he said plaintively. “What makes you want to ack as if—”
“Honest, I don’t, Penrod!” she assured him earnestly. “I don’t remember any—”
“Well, look!” And he threw back his coat, displaying the glittering symbol of his chosen calling. This time, he allowed her a longer inspection.
“It’s right pretty, Penrod,” she said, and examined the inscription upon the shield with a little curiosity, though its significance was lost upon her, for she read the letters separately. “P, V, D, T, E, T, E, C, A, G, C, Y,” she read slowly, and then her face brightened. “Oh, Penrod, I know what it is now! It’s sumpthing like what they put in schoolbooks that say over it, P, R, E, F, A, C, E, and stands for ‘Peter Rice eats fish and catches eels,’ if you read it forward; and, if you read it backward, it means ‘Eels catches alligators; Frank eats raw potaters’!”
“It don’t anything o’ the sort mean Peter Rice—”
“Oh, I didn’t mean yours did!” Marjorie interrupted. “I only meant yours means sumpthing like that.”
“It does not!”
“Well then, what does yours mean, Penrod?”
Penrod breathed hard. “It means sumpthing you wouldn’t know what I was talkin’ about if I was to tell you,” he replied coldly. “I did tell you one thing, and you never hardly noticed.”
“What was it?”
“Chasin’ these crooks. I told you it was a perty danger’s biznuss.”
“Penrod, you said you’d tell me what a crook is.”
“Well—” He looked cautiously over his shoulder be fore proceeding. “A crook is — well, crooks are somebody that ought to be arrested. Anybody that’s in jail is a crook, like horse-thieves and all. I’m after a gang of crooks now.” Marjorie seemed perplexed. “You are?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What did they do to you, Penrod?”
“What?”
“What did they do to you to make you after ’em?”
“Well—” He paused. “Well, I’m after ’em all light, and they better look out.”
“Who are they, Penrod? Is that little Carlie Chitten one?”
Penrod was becoming exasperated by Marjorie’s opacity and her failure to be impressed. “No; ‘that little Carlie Chitten’ is not one!” he said, bitterly burlesquing her voice. “My goodness! I thought you knew anyways a little about sumpthing!”
“Well, why don’t you tell me who these crooks are, then?”
“I’ll tell you, all right!” said Penrod. “I guess when I tell you who it is, you won’t talk so much about ‘little Carlie Chitten’Iso much!”
“Well then, why don’t you go ahead and tell me?”
“Well, I will, if you’d ever give me the chance.”
“Well, I’m givin’ you the chance now. I won’t say a thing till you’re through.”
“Well, one of ‘em’s a man that wears false black whiskers.”
“You mean a grown-up man, Penrod?”
“‘Course I mean a ‘grown-up man’,” said the daring boy. “What do you think I’m talkin’ about? He hangs around, and every little while he talks to the other one. He’s got false black whiskers. There’s two of ’em.”
“You mean they both have false black whiskers, Penrod?”
“No! I didn’t say they had, did I? Who said they both — My goodness! I said the one with false black whiskers had false black whiskers. I didn’t say the other one had. He hasn’t got any at all.”
“Well, who is this other one, then, Penrod?”
“It’s that ole Mr. Dade.”
&
nbsp; “Who?”
“It’s that ole Dade comes to our house and sits around so much.”
“Penrod!” Marjorie cried, amazed. “Why, I know him! He comes to see Papa sometimes.”
“Well, he’s the crook.”
Marjorie was utterly skeptical. “He is not!” she cried. “Papa wouldn’t let him if he was somebody ought to be in jail. He wouldn’t let him in our house. Penrod Schofield, you made all this up, yourself!”
“I did not!” Penrod cried, and he was sincerely indignant. “That’s just what crooks do. They go around and get in people’s houses, and then they steal sumpthing or else get the people to sign some ole paper and grab everything they got. I don’t care if ole Dade does come around and see your father, he’s the worst crook there is.”
“He is not!”
“He is, too! And pretty soon he’ll either steal sumpthing or he’ll get your father and mother to sign some ole papers, and your father won’t have a cent left to his name.”
At last he began to make an impression. Marjorie showed signs of alarm. “Penrod!” she cried, her lovely eyes widening, her pink lips parting.
“You’ll see!”
“Penrod, do you think he’d steal Papa’s money?”
“I don’t know,” Penrod said modestly, “whether he’d slip it out of his pocket or get him to sign some ole papers, but he’ll do sumpthing like that. Your father won’t have a cent left to his name if he keeps on goin’ with that ole Dade or the man with the false black whisk—”
Penrod paused, and his jaw dropped slightly in his amazement, a tribute to one of those supreme coincidences that happen to ordinary people only four or five times in their lives. Marjorie’s father, Mr. Paoli Jones, was just entering the front gate, and by his side walked the man with the false black whiskers. Conversing seriously, the two passed along the path from the front gate to the front door — and disappeared within the house.
“My goodness!” Penrod gasped.
“What’s the matter?”
“That was him!”
“Who?” cried, Marjorie. “Where was he?”
“With your father! Marjorie, that was the other crook I and Herm — I and Bill and Jim are after. It’s the one with the false black whiskers!”
Marjorie’s eyes flashed. “They are not!” she cried. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Penrod Schofield, telling such a story! They are not any such a thing false! He had typhoid fever, and when he got well, Mamma coaxed him to let ’em stay on, on account of hiding his chin.”
“Do you know who it is, Marjorie?”
“I should think maybe I ought to know him!” she responded indignantly. “It’s my Uncle Montgomery.”
CHAPTER XII
IMPRESSING MARJORIE
IT MAY NOT be denied that for the moment Penrod was taken aback. He rubbed his knee in silence, seeming to find an injury there; then, somewhat feebly, he inquired, “What’s his last name?”
“Whose last name?” the offended Marjorie demanded. “Papa’s?”
“No; I mean what’s the man with the — I mean what’s your uncle’s last name?”
“Jones!” she replied, with an explosiveness beyond her years.
“Well,” Penrod began uncomfortably, “well — all right.”
“I guess it is not all right, either! You got to take back all you called my Uncle Montgomery or I’ll never speak to you again.”
Penrod felt desperate. He had come, that morning, to overwhelm Marjorie, to leave her almost prostrate with admiration and, conceivably, weeping with anxiety over the dangerous life his position in the world compelled him to lead. Here was a collapse indeed — just as he had begun to diagnose symptoms of success. Vaguely he sought some means to counteract malignant fortune.
“Well, I’ll take it all back about your uncle.”
“Every last word?”
“I will about him.”
Marjorie looked at Penrod suspiciously. “Well, what won’t you take every last word back about?”
“That ole Dade,” Penrod said doggedly. “I won’t take back any about him, because we’re after him, and we’re goin’ to keep on after him — and he’s a crook!”
“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe a word of it, because look what you just said about my Uncle Mont—”
“Marjorie,” the goaded boy burst out, “didn’t I just say I took it back about your ole Uncle Montgomery? That hasn’t got anything to do with the rest of it, has it? I guess your eyes wouldn’t stick out if I just told you a few things about that ole Dade! Oh, no!”
“Well, what about him, then, you know so much?”
“Well—”
“I won’t believe a word of it unless you tell me!”
“Marjorie—”
“You don’t know anything any more’n you did about Uncle Montgomery. That’s the reason you won’t tell.”
“You listen here!” the incensed Penrod began. “You just listen to me!”
“Well, I am listening.”
“You listen, Marjorie! My father said this ole Dade stole horses, and so did my mother, and I heard them say it. I guess you ain’t goin’ to claim my father and mother don’t tell the truth, are you? Anybody that calls my father and mother a liar—”
“Penrod! Did you honestly hear your father and mother say that?”
“Yes, I did! And anybody that calls my father and moth—”
“Penrod!” Such passionate defense of his parents’ reputation was not needed; they ranked as unquestionable authorities, and Marjorie accepted Mr. Herbert Hamilton Dade’s status as that of a horse-thief. “Penrod, it’s just terrible!” she cried.
“I know lots worse about him ‘n that,” he declared.
“Worse than stealing horses, Penrod?”
Penrod had carried his point; in spite of everything, he had succeeded in being as impressive as he had hoped to be. Nothing could have been more natural than that he should both protract and intensify the fragrant moment. Marjorie now seemed ready to believe whatever he said, and he more than half believed his ominous projections, himself. He became so mysterious that not only his mother, but a professional oculist, might have warned him to take care.
“Stealing horses isn’t much to what that gang does — when they get started once,” he said.
“Who’s the others, Penrod?” Marjorie inquired, and, with gentle urgency, she added, “You took it back about Uncle Montgomery, Penrod.”
“Well — he isn’t; but they’ll proba’ly get him to sign some ole papers or sumpthing.”
Marjorie’s eyes grew larger than ever. “Would they — would they make Papa sign some, too, Penrod?”
“Well, that’s just what I told you, isn’t it? That’s the way ole crooks do. First, he’ll make your father sign the ole papers, and then proba’ly he’ll want to get married to you or sumpthing—”
“Why, Penrod!” This was too far beyond Marjorie’s horizon; she was not allowed to attend the “movies”. “What are you talkin’ about?” she exclaimed. “Anyway, I heard Mamma say that Mr Dade wanted to get married to your sister, Margaret.”
“Well, I guess he does,” Penrod admitted; and then, recovering himself, added scornfully, “I guess I know that much, don’t I?”
“Well, you just said—”
“Listen, can’t you, just a minute? Can’t you listen just a minute? My goodness! If he got all your father’s money and his house an’ lot, then he could come and marry Margaret, couldn’t he?”
“But you—”
“Well, he could, couldn’t he?”
“I didn’t say he couldn’t, Penrod.”
“Well, then, listen a minute, can’t you? My good—”
“I am listening!” Marjorie felt that there had been a definite inconsistency in Penrod’s statement; but, in a moment or two, as he went on, the inconsistency lost its definiteness, became vague, and then she forgot it altogether — and so did Penrod.
“This is the way ole Dade does, Marj
orie. First, he gets somebody that drinks, or sumpthing, and gets him to help make some ole father write his name on the ole papers and then he proba’ly gets him arrested and put in jail, or else he takes and kills him—”
“Which one, Penrod? Which one does he kill?”
He deliberated. “Well, gener’ly the one that drinks, and then he takes all the other one’s money and his house an’ lot. Well, f’r instance, supposin’ your Uncle Montgomery is the one that drinks—”
“He does not! He doesn’t either drink, and you shan’t say—”
“Well, I didn’t say he did, did I? My goodness, I just said — well, even if he don’t drink or anything, I bet ok Dade’ll make your father give him all his money and his house an’ lot and everything, and then where’ll you be?” Marjorie was disturbed, but she had a reassuring thought. “Papa wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t give Uncle Montgomery—”
“I didn’t say he’d give it to your uncle. He’d haf to give it to ole Dade. My goodness!”
“Why, Papa wouldn’t give it to Mr. Dade! If he wouldn’t give it to Uncle Montgomery, he wouldn’t take and give it to—”
“You’ll see!”
“Well, I don’t think he would, Penrod.”
“Listen here, Marjorie,” Penrod said argumentatively. “You don’t know as much as I do, do you?”
“Well, I know anyway almost as much,” Marjorie returned stoutly.
“Well, almost as much isn’t as much,” said Penrod. “And you don’t know half what I know about crooks. You don’t know anything at all about ’em, and I know ‘most everything.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Well,” said Penrod, “you better look out, that’s all; and your father better look out, or, first thing he knows, there’ll be — there’ll be lots o’ trouble around here!”
His manner (that of one knowing much more than circumstances permitted him to tell) had a powerful effect upon Marjorie, who was becoming seriously alarmed. “Why, Papa would go and get that bad man arrested!” she said, but without strong conviction, for it had begun to seem to her that her father was in the toils. However, she had another hopeful thought: “He’d rather have him arrested, any day, than give him his house an’ lot.”
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 443