Penrod had no verbal reply for this; yet he had talked himself into the belief that Mr. Jones was somehow inextricably ensnared by the crook, Dade, and Marjorie’s reasonable idea failed to shake him. He made some sounds of derision, and then shook his head portentously.
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Marjorie urged. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“You just wait and see, Marjorie Jones!” said Penrod gloomily.
Marjorie’s face fell; again all seemed lost. “Are you sure, Penrod?” she quavered.
“You just wait and see.”
“Pen—” She paused, interrupted by a call from the house.
“Lunch, Marjorie! Come to the table!”
“I’m coming, Mamma.” She took a few steps toward Penrod, who was already moving in the direction of the front gate. “Penrod, do you think—”
“You just wait and see, Marjorie Jones!”
“Oh, Penrod, please—”
In spite of her appealing voice, he continued upon his way; and the summons from the house was repeated.
“Marjorie!”
Thereupon, Marjorie turned obediently and went into the house. Meanwhile, a feeling, undeniably to be diagnosed as one of satisfaction, became part of Penrod’s genuinely ominous forebodings on behalf of the Jones family; he was justifiably confident that Marjorie regarded him as an important person not immeasurably unlike an actual George B. Jashber. Still, he had another feeling underneath his satisfaction and his foreboding. This third feeling was less active and feebler than the two others — but it was there. And if he could have seen the excitement in Marjorie’s face as she went in to lunch with her family and her Uncle Montgomery, and if he could have read her impulses under that excitement, this relatively insignificant third feeling would certainly have become, upon the instant, the most powerful one of the three.
It consisted of a shimmering disquiet, a foggy sense of having dabbled in vast matters, of having done something — somehow — somewhere — that might bring about results upon the adult plane and far out of his range and class. It did not last long, but while it was present within him Penrod felt a little uncomfortable.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PURSUIT OF DADE
THAT AFTERNOON SAM Williams returned from a visit to his uncle’s farm where he had happily spent the fortnight elapsed since the beginning of the summer vacation. He had heard something there that gave him an exciting new idea for the future career of Walter-John, and, taking that still cumbersome pup with him upon a leash, he sought out his friend Penrod, thus walking straight into the arms of another of those coincidences that attend upon the adventures of people engaged in the discovery of crime and the detection of criminals. He came upon Penrod, Herman and Verman, as the three sat making up the day’s Report in the Jashberian office, though of course Sam was unaware of what thus preoccupied them, and even that they were in an office at all. He greeted them cheerfully, and, not realizing that he was intruding, began at once to explain his new idea.
“Look, Penrod!” he said. “Listen! I know sumpthing I bet you don’t know, or even Herman and Verman, either. John Carmichael told me out on my uncle’s farm where I been, and I bet none of you know anything at all about it.”
“Never mind,” Penrod said coldly. “We’re kind o’ busy now, Sam. Maybe I’ll tell you sumpthing about it some day; but not now, because Herman and Verman and I got a good deal on our hands to-day. If you want to play some game or sumpthing you better go find Georgie Bassett or Roddy Bitts or—”
“I don’t either want to play any ole game or anything,” Sam returned, aggrieved. “John Carmichael told me sumpthing out at my ûncle’s farm, and I’m goin’ to train my good ole dog to do it. When I get him trained I guess you won’t feel sick you never trained Duke like that or anything! Oh, no! I guess I and John won’t make you and Duke look cheap or anything! You won’t come around then and say, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it so I could train my dog that way, too, Sam?’ Oh, no!”
“What way?” Penrod asked scornfully. “What way would I waste all my good time and everything wantin’ to train Duke to jump through a hoop or sumpthing you’re talkin’ so much about. What way?”
“‘Jump through a hoop’!” Sam exclaimed derisively. “This dog o’ mine isn’t goin’ to waste any time like that any more’n you would. You wait and see! Some day you’ll see me just give John Carmichael, here, one sniff of some ole crook’s shoe or his pocket-book or sumpthing, and then — oh, my! Go it, you bloodhound you!”
“What you talkin’ about?”
“Listen!” Sam said. “John Carmichael told me that over at the county-seat, near where my uncle’s farm is, the sheriff keeps a couple o’ bloodhounds. If some ole crook gets out o’ jail there or anything, they let the bloodhounds smell sumpthing that belonged to him, like his shoes or his hat or anything, and then — Whizz! those two bloodhounds go after him and catch him and pull him down! That’s just what John Carmichael said; they pull him down, John said, and then they hold him there till the sheriff comes and arrests him again. John Carmichael said there was proba’ly some bloodhound in John Carmichael, and anyhow lots of other kinds o’ dogs besides bloodhounds could be trained to go after crooks just the same as bloodhounds do. So proba’ly Duke could be trained to do it, ‘specially if we trained him along with John Carmichael. John Carmichael said he was almost sure John Carmichael had proba’ly a whole lot o’ bloodhound in him, and John Carmichael said John would learn how without any trouble at all, so if you want to—”
“Hoi’ on a minute!” It was Herman who interrupted; he looked interested but puzzled. “Whut is all ‘iss here John Cowmikles? You say John Cowmikles say John Cowmikles got bloodhoun’ in him, an’ you go on talk so all mixed up about how John Cowmikles say John Cowmikles say John Cowmikles got bloodhoun’ in him—”
“It isn’t mixed up at all,” Sam interrupted crossly. “John Carmichael works on my uncle’s farm, and he’s the man that gave me John Carmichael, and he said I could train John Carmichael—”
“Hoi’ on a minute! My goo’niss! John Cowmikles tell you—”
“There’s two of ’em,” Sam explained. “What’s the matter of you, Herman? Can’t you understand anything at all? Look! This dog is named John Carmichael because I named him for the other one that gave him to me. The one on the farm is a man, but this one is a dog, and both their names are John Carmichael. The man on the farm that’s named John Carmichael is a man; but this dog, here, that’s named John Carmichael is a dog, and he’s named for the—”
“Nemmine,” Herman interrupted, for Sam seemed to intend to continue his rather laborious explanation indefinitely. “Nemmine; I know whut you mean.”
Penrod had become interested in Sam’s idea, for the addition of two perfectly trained bloodhounds to the Jashber Agency would of course increase the agency’s efficiency — at least dramatically. “Listen here, Sam,” he said, “if Walter’s got some bloodhound in him, I guess he could be trained that way, and Duke could help train him, because Duke’s a full-blooded dog. Anyhow, we were thinkin’ about lettin’ you be a member after you came home, so I guess you can join. Look, Sam!”
With this simple prelude, he exposed the shield to Sam’s surprised gaze, and forthwith explained the organization and purposes of the agency; Sam was given a special name and a number, thus becoming a full member, though of subordinate standing. The training of the bloodhounds then became the next order of business, and Duke was brought into the office to learn the first steps, in company with Walter-John.
“Our good ole bloodhounds got to have some practise,” Penrod said. “That’s the way we haf to begin, so they can learn what to do when we take ’em out after the Dade gang.
This is the way we’ll do — Listen, Sam! Listen, Herman!
Listen, Verman! We’ll make ’em smell sumpthing that belongs to one of us, then that one’ll pretend like he’s runnin’ away and we’ll let the good ole bloodhounds out after him. It wouldn’t do
for me to be the one, because of course Duke’d follow me anyway, and Sam won’t do, because Walter’d follow him.”
“It ain’ go’ be me,” Herman announced quickly, as Penrod’s eye wandered to him. “Ain’ go’ be no bloodhoun’s pull me down an’ hol’ me fer no sheriffs!”
“Verman’d be the best one,” Penrod said. “The trouble is Verman hasn’t got any shoes or hat or even any jacket.” He paused in thought, then brightened. “That won’t hurt, though. Just to begin with, we can make the good ole bloodhounds smell Verman, himself; then he can begin runnin’ away, and we’ll sick the good ole bloodhounds on him after he gets a start.”
Rut Verman proved to be unwilling. “Mo!” he said decisively. “Mo!”
“Aw, look here, Verman!” Penrod said. “You don’t want to go spoiling everything, do you? This isn’t goin’ to hurt you any, and you can’t ack the cry-baby around here, or else I won’t let you be Jim any longer. Come on now, we got to make these bloodhounds smell him good!”
“Mo!” Verman repeated, but with less determination; and, a moment later, as the noses of the two reluctant bloodhounds were forced against his person, he consented to take the part assigned to him in their training, and even giggled when his ribs were rubbed with the nose of Walter-John. “‘Op picka me!” he protested.
Herman giggled, too, “Verman say stop ticklin’ him,” he interpreted.
“All right,” Penrod said. “I guess these good ole bloodhounds have smelled him enough; because they couldn’t smell him any more if we kept at it a year, so run, Verman! Run!”
Verman ran out into the yard; the hounds were released and urged to follow the fugitive. “Sick ’im!” Penrod, Sam and Herman shouted. “Sick ’im, you ole bloodhounds you! Go after him! Sick ’im! Sick ’im!”
Thus encouraged, Duke and Walter-John behaved admirably. They ran after Verman, barked at him loudly, frisked round him with the liveliest pleasure in the world; Walter-John frolicsomely seized a loose edge of the largest patch upon Verman’s trousers and held to it until a sound of ripping and Verman’s aggrieved squealing abashed him into releasing it. Verman returned to the stable loudly complaining and holding the patch in place with his hand; but Sam was delighted and proud. “What did I tell you!” he shouted. “Didn’t I tell you John Carmichael said John Carmichael was part bloodhound! C’m on, Verman, we’ll make ’em smell you again, and this time I bet good ole John Carmichael’ll—”
“Mo!” Verman said, and he remained obdurate, not to be persuaded. Herman declined positively to act as a substitute fugitive, and, as both Penrod and Sam insisted that they were needed as trainers, it was finally decided to let the matter rest for the day upon the undoubted success of the single experiment.
“Anyway,” Penrod said, “what we haf to do is to get some shoes or sumpthing that belong to the Dade gang and make our good ole bloodhounds smell ’em. Then they’d go after them the way they just did after Verman. E’r instance, if we had a pair of their shoes, we could have Verman wear ’em, and train Duke and Walter to go after Verman as long as he had the shoes on; then when the Dade gang put these shoes back on again — Whizz! Go it, you bloodhounds you!”
This idea struck him as so interesting that it recurred to him at intervals throughout the rest of the afternoon; and nothing could have been more natural than that it should recur to him again in the evening, when Mr. Dade, as matters fell out, left a light Panama hat upon the hall table. Margaret and the young man sat indoors, in the living-room, the air being chill, and Mr. Dade took his departure as usual at ten o’clock, a habit of his that had won Mrs. Schofield’s favour and caused her to speak of him as a “well brought-up young man”, which seemed, indeed, to be the fact. When he left, he did not put on his hat until after he had descended the verandah steps, Margaret having accompanied him so far; and then, employing it in a courtly gesture of farewell, “Good-night, Princess!” he said, and placed it upon his head. He experienced a slight surprise; but rather than spoil the effect of his departing gesture, he went out of the gate and a little way down the street before removing the hat and examining it by the light of a street-lamp. Yes, he was right; there were damp spots inside, upon the band and upon the fine straw, and there were also some smudges not there when he had deposited the hat upon the table. “Curious,” he thought. Had water been spilled upon the table, or had someone else taken the hat temporarily by mistake However, the damage was insignificant, a fact more remarkable than he could have guessed, since Duke and Walter-John had spent whole minutes with their noses held firmly within the hat, and Verman had worn it during several practise excursions as a fugitive in the dusk of the alley. “Curious,” Mr. Dade thought again, as he replaced the hat upon his head and resumed his way down the street. Then suddenly, he started nervously and quickened his pace.
A peculiar voice, with which, however, he was now far from unfamiliar, had squealed out of the darkness almost at his heels. “Warn mubbowm!”
Then another voice at a distance seemed to repeat this squealing, though the words it cried came not distinguishably to the ears of Mr. Dade.
Penrod and Sam, farther in the rear, understood this second voice, however. It was that of Herman, interpreting for the small brother. “‘Where ’em bloodhoun’s?’ Verman say. ‘Where ’em bloodhoun’s?’”
“Doggone it!” Penrod muttered. For Duke trotted amiably enough by his side, but only looked dejected, or stopped altogether, when urged forward upon the chase; and Sam, a little way behind, was even less successful with Walter-John. Walter-John, indeed, could be kept upon the trail only by means of a leash, and followed Sam in a partly sitting-down attitude, offering the dead weight of a complete, if passive, resistance.
“I expeck he wants to go home,” Sam panted, when he and his charge came up with Penrod. “Anyhow he seems to want to sit down all the time. I guess bloodhounds don’t like to work at night, Penrod, proba’ly. John Carmichael don’t seem to take any interest, like he did this afternoon, and besides, I got to go home, myself, because I’m goin’ to get fits for stayin’ out this late, anyhow.”
They paused for consultation; but stood for a time in silence, and then, from the farther end of the next block, heard faintly another appeal from Verman, and, a moment later, almost as faintly, the faithful brother’s interpretation, “Verman say he cain’ see no bloodhoun’s!”
“Well, what we better do?” Sam inquired, looking down moodily at the bloodhounds. Duke had taken occasion to roll upon his back, and Walter-John was sniffing at him indolently. “We better call to Herman and Verman we’re go-in’ home now, don’t you think, Penrod?”
“I don’t s’pose we could make ’em hear us,” Penrod said. “Not unless we ran after ’em, and I got to go home now, too, Sam. It’s better to let them go on shadowin’ him, anyway.” Then, as the two boys turned, and, followed by the bloodhounds, walked back toward home, he went on: “I guess you’re right about our good ole dogs not likin’ to go after crooks except in daytime, Sam. We got to teach ’em to trail the Dade gang while it’s light, I guess, and I know what’d be the best time for that. Sunday afternoon before last he and my sister went for a walk, and they went last Sunday, too. If they go again next Sunday, why, we can get Herman and Verman and our good ole bloodhounds—”
“Listen!” Sam said.
In the quiet night a far away shrilling in a slender African voice was just audible; then the sound seemed to be repeated like an echo a little louder than the original outcry.
“Could you make out anything he said?” Sam asked. “No; they’re too far down the street. They’re mighty good men, that ole Jim and Bill. They’ll keep right on the trail until he goes home to bed. It’s a good thing for us that Jim and Bill are coloured, I ‘xpeck.”
Sam was surprised. “Why?” he inquired.
“Well, for one thing, you can’t see ’em very well after dark,” Penrod answered. “And besides,” the observant boy added, a moment later, “coloured people never haf to go home to
bed at night, anyhow.”
CHAPTER XIV
A SUNDAY STROLL
THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY morning, Mr. Robert Williams went to church in company with the other members of his own family — that is to say, with his father and his mother and his eleven-year-old brother, Sam. The serious expression of the new Bachelor of Arts was one evidence that going to church with his own family was not one of the summer pleasures he had promised himself in his undergraduate day-dreams, and, during the service, his eyes frequently wandered to another family group of four in a pew across the aisle. On the homeward way, also, his wistful look ran forward, over intervening heads, to where, in this other family group, a frivolous hat affected sedateness for the occasion. No physical force prevented Robert from joining Miss Schofield; she had no escort or protection except that afforded by her father, mother and brother. Nevertheless, Robert Williams walked with his own family — in peace, it may be, but certainly without jocosity.
In the afternoon, after four o’clock, he came out upon the front verandah of his father’s house, sat in a wicker chair and opened a book, but read nothing therein. His gaze was steadfast upon a lawn and gate a little way down the street, and there was in his face an expectancy like that of a person who waits in a dentist’s anteroom. It was the look of one who, from previous experience, knows what is going to happen presently but anticipates little to his pleasure.
Nor did his inward prophecies fail of fulfilment — though, as it happened,-the facts proved to be an unexpected and fantastic embroidery upon the simple weave of his predictions. From Mr. Schofield’s gate, as the disturbed Robert expected, Margaret and Mr. Herbert Hamilton Dade came forth, patently for an afternoon walk; and both were in a mood of gaiety, so far as sight and hearing might disclose their condition to the young man pretending to read a book. The cruel Margaret had looked never more charming.
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 444