Nor were the chief and his subordinates at all disturbed by the fact that this report showed nothing more discreditable to Mr. Dade than that he had taken a walk with Penrod’s sister and had displayed irritation with Verman and, subsequently, with Herman. Indeed, there was no reason why the members of the agency should have been more discouraged by this report than by any other in Penrod’s collection, for all the others were as innocuous. The trail of the scondrel, Dade, led sometimes from the Y. M. C. A. building to Jones Brothers’ real-estate office, sometimes to a barber shop, sometimes to a dairy-lunch or other restaurant, sometimes to the post-office — and always, when the shadowers persisted long enough, back to the Y. M. C. A. building. There were times when the scondrel had been tracked to a confectioner’s, and twice he had gone to a florist’s; but not once did a report prove him to have entered a saloon. The truth is that a grown person, examining these documents, must have judged Mr. Dade to be certainly harmless and probably exemplary; and, if the young man had known of their existence, he might well have cited them in a court of law (supposing such necessity) as proof of his good habits and testimony to his high character. But whoever surmises that the reports lacked damnatory significance in the eyes of the agency understands little of George B. Jashber, Bill, Jim and honest Tabber. They had begun by accepting it as a fact that this ole Dade was guilty; therefore, whatever he did was suspicious. The nature of his guilt remained indefinite; sometimes it was one thing, sometimes another. On certain days, he would be spoken and thought of as a man who stole horses; on other days, his habitual crime seemed to be obtaining possession of some ole father’s house an’ lot through the signing of some ole papers. But never for one moment was there any doubt that he was a criminal. In that capacity, he was securely established — it might be said, indeed, that he had been appointed to the office; he was the official crook of this agency. One noontime, Penrod and Sam shadowed him to a businessmen’s revival meeting; they even followed him inside, and nothing that he did there shook their constant faith that in selecting him to be the agency’s crook Penrod had done well.
And in this — as in other ways of boys, whose ways, fundamentally, are grown people’s ways, and of whom nearly all human truth may be learned — in this we see a plain old fact of life prettily confirmed: that once we judge, we no longer possess judgment. That is the reason why grown people who have decided to think of certain other people as enemies, or as bad people, are shocked and troubled (for the moment) when they hear of those enemies or bad people doing something worthy and creditable. The worthy and creditable action is interpreted, in such cases, as the deceptive result of vicious motives. George B. Jashber, Bill, Jim and Tabber merely omitted the pause for being shocked and doing the interpreting. Thus, the report of ole Dade’s visit to the revival meeting was written simply:
Report. Nomber 103 George B. Jashber and Nomber 106 Tabber shad to where lots going on like praying and all such The crook got to senging hims.
CHAPTER XVI
TWO RETURN TO PRIVATE LIFE
THE CONDITION OF Mr. Herbert Hamilton Dade’s nerves may be described — though imperfectly — as shaken. What had first seemed to him merely annoying coincidence had been so persistently repeated that it was folly to think the phenomena could be accounted for by even the most fantastic stretching of the laws of chance. Ordinarily he was not a superstitious young man; nevertheless, his mind had begun to be haunted by uncomfortable, strange ideas. He knew that the days of bewitchment were long since passed; but he had become so sensitive that he was ready to start at the mere sight of coloured children on the street — and that in broad daylight. Then, in the Y. M. C. A. library, early on an evening of rain, he found a book on Voodooism that did little to reassure him; he could not read it without glancing apprehensively over his shoulder from time to time, and after an hour he decided that this work, though learned, was making him morbid. He closed the book abruptly, returned it to its shelf, then went downstairs to the vestibule of the building. Here he paused for some moments of perturbed thought, and his expression was that of a person who debates whether or not to make an experiment that his forebodings warn him will end ominously. Then, with a hand slightly tremulous, he pushed open the outer door. It yielded with reluctance to his touch, as if resisted by something not weighty but unwilling to be dislodged from the step.
“He hum ow!” shouted a querulous voice too well known to him. “Pie hoohum me how in haim!”
Herman, at the corner, of the building, interpreted to Penrod, lurking beyond. “He say ole Dade cornin’ out. Say he pushin’ him out in the rain. I reckon Verman gittin’ kine o’ mad. We gittin’ might tired all ‘iss shaddin’ an’ ev’y-thing. When we go’ git a chance to quit an’ do somp’m’ else?”
“Well, what’s the matter of you?” Penrod demanded crossly, approaching him. “My goodness! I’d like to know what you and Verman want!”
“Want to go home an’ quit all ‘iss shaddin’. Look to me like I nev’ git so wet in my days.”
“You want to quit?” Penrod asked incredulously.
“I sut’ny do!” Herman responded with fervour. “‘Isshere fofe time I be’n wet froo clean to my skin, an’ I don’ keer whut ole Dade do no mo’. I ain’ see no hosses, an’ I ain’ see no ole papuhs he done sign, an’ I ain’ liable to see none, ‘cause he don’ nev’ sign none when we ‘roun the place. How we go’ ketch ’im at it? Look to me like he mus’ always sign ’em inside ‘isshere buildin’, else sometime when we home eat-in’ meals ‘r else in bed. Anyways, I don’ keer whut he do no mo’. We be’n goin’ on ‘iss way an’ shaddin’, shaddin’ all time, shaddin’ I dunno how long, an’ I’m a-goin’ quit!”
“You ain’t goin’ to quit now, are you, Bill?” his chief asked reproachfully.
“Aft”iss one night, you kin fill my place,” said Herman firmly. “I done got so tired all ‘isshere shaddin’, shaddin’, all time shaddin’, I ain’ bettin’ no man I ain’ go’ drop dead in my tracks.”
This was not the first time Penrod had dealt with mutiny of the sort; in fact, if he had not been chief, holding the delightful power to send his men here or there as he chose, and to say, “Do thus”, or “Do so”, at will, he would have tired long since, himself. But, as things were, he was both grieved and irritated by Herman’s complaints.
“My goodness!” he remonstrated. “Haven’t you got any sense, Herman? I guess you don’t remember there’s mighty few coloured boys get a chance like this.”
“Chanst like whut? You gimme chanst fer to walk my feet off, git wet froo to my skin, ‘n’en git the hide lammed off o’ me when I git back home!’At’s all chanst you gimme!”
“My goodness! I never did hear anybody that liked to talk so much! Now, you kept standin’ around here so long talkin’, ole Dade’s come out—”
“No, he ain’.”
“Well, Verman hollered and said—”
“I don’ keer what he hollered. He’s settin’ back scrooged up ag’in’ the do’, out the rain, like whut he wuz. Ole Dade come out, gone back in ag’in.”
This was accurate, except that Mr. Dade had not come out. At the sound of Verman’s voice, he instantly allowed the door to close and withdrew to the interior of the building. His manner was preoccupied, not without perturbation. He declined a game of checkers with a fellow lodger, and, after a few moments of indecision in the reading-room, went upstairs to his own chamber, where he sat upon the edge of his bed and looked long and thoughtfully at his trunk.
The rain beat furiously upon the window of his room: necessarily it was copious upon Penrod and the despondent Herman, some forty feet beneath that window. Verman was lucky enough to obtain a measure of shelter; but suffered a misfortune, which caused him so greatly to distrust the doorway that he abandoned it definitely. A basket-ball team of hearty young men, all in high spirits and well equipped against the weather, came bursting forth from the building with such sudden gusto and liveliness that Verman, pressed too tightly against
the door, found an almost infinitesimal portion of his person, together with a fold of his trousers, caught between the base of the door and the sill and acting as a wedge to prevent the door from opening readily; but, as the full force of the basket-ball team accumulated against this momentary resistance, the door flew open, and Verman, uttering a dolorous shout, sped before it. Seated, he passed to the middle of the splashing sidewalk, and in other postures proceeded as far as the street. Then, having risen, he did not pause, but started at once for home. He went hastily, yet in the attitude of one who nurses himself in affliction, and, upon being joined by Penrod and Herman, kept hurrying on his way, in spite of Penrod’s every remonstrance. His attire was damaged, and he had been seriously pinched. With bitterness, he declined to return to his post — and resigned. Herman also resigned.
The next morning, not appearing at the agency, and being summoned (from the alley doors of the carriage-house) for the Report, the brothers came into the stable and resigned again.
“Well, listen, if you ever heard anybody talk like they hadn’t got a grain o’ sense!” Penrod exclaimed to Sam. Sam, having been detained at home the night before, was still loyal. “Looky here, Herman,” the chief went on, turning to the former members, “I guess you got better sense than you act like. What you and Verman want to go and quit now for? Look: Not hardly two weeks ago — didn’t you each get a dime, besides all that food Sam and I bought and let you eat as much of as we ate, ourselves?”
“Dime!” said Herman coldly. “We ain’ got no mo’ dime now. Yes; an’ whut come when we gone et all ‘at b’loney sausage an’ sody an’ ev’y which an’ whut? Done h’ist me so bad I ain’ sca’cely et nuff’m sense but whut she like to h’ist me ag’in! Me an’ Verman froo, I tell you!”
Penrod turned appealingly to Verman. “Well, if ole Herman has got to act like he hasn’t got a grain o’ sense, I bet good ole Verman isn’t goin’ back on Sam and me. Verman, you know what’s good for you, don’t you, Verman? Verman, you’re goin’ to keep on—”
“Mo!” Verman exclaimed immediately. “Mo!”
“Verman, he set on quittin’ wuss’n I am,” said Herman. “Mammy couldn’ sca’cely fix him his pants so’s he kin walk roun’ nowhere; an’ he got sech a pinch’ place on him, she say she almos’ go’ feel sorry to lam’ him fer nex’ week er two. I don’ keer ef ole Mis’ Dade steal how many hosses, an’ I don’ keer ef he tuck an’ run away wif fo’ millyum house an’ lots! I done walk my feet off shaddin’, shaddin’, all time shaddin’, an’ I done got soak’ froo to my skin an’ bones, an’ nev’ see nuff’m”mount to nuff’m’ nohow. I done walk my feet off fer las’ time, I tell you! No, suh; me an’ Verman quit!”
It seemed to be final.
CHAPTER XVII
DISASTER
AFTER LUNCH, SAM and Penrod sat dispiritedly in the office, lacking heart to take up the chase or even to proceed with the day’s Report. Before long, they drifted out into the yard, and thence to the sidewalk, saying little, for they began to feel that the great days of the agency were over, and gloomily they were wondering what they could find to take its place. The conduct of Herman and Verman appeared in a light purely hateful. Just when everything was going so well — and everything —
“Penrod! Penrod Schofield!”
From down the street came the lovely voice of Marjorie Jones, calling. She was running toward them, waving her arms eagerly and crying Penrod’s name in excitement. The boys listlessly watched her approach.
“Penrod!” she gasped, as she reached them. She leaned against the fence, trying to recover her breath. “Oh, Penrod! Oh, my!”
“Well, what’s the matter of you, Marjorie?”
“Papa!” she panted. “Pup-papa — Papa wants you to come to our house. He wants to see you before he goes back downtown to his office.”
“What for?” Penrod asked, surprised.
“About — oh, my, I did run so fast! About — it’s about that ole crook, Penrod!”
Penrod stared, incredulous. He felt suddenly uncomfortable, and a vague apprehension stirred within him.
“He wants you to come right away. It’s all on account of because I told him all that stuff you told me. I told Papa all that stuff you told me—”
“What — what stuff?”
“About ole Dade, Penrod. I told Papa every bit you said, and what you think. Papa says you haf to come and tell him about it!”
“What you talkin’ about, Marjorie? What you — what you talkin’ so much about?”
“Why, about what you told me about that ole crook,” Marjorie informed him cheerfully. “I told Papa all about that shadowin’ and everything — and I told him how you found out this ole Dade was such a crook, and how you said he was goin’ to get Papa to sign some ole papers and get his house an’ lot, and maybe he’d kill Uncle Montgomery or maybe not — because you know you weren’t sure about that part, Penrod — and, well, I told Papa everything about it.”
“When?” Penrod asked, and a sudden chill played along his spine. “When did you tell him about it?”
“Just a little while ago, while we were having lunch. Papa was saying to Mamma he thought Mr. Dade was such a nice young man, and so they noticed I was makin’ a face and asked me what for. Well, Mamma always scolds me for makin’ faces, so you see I had to tell why I did it, and then was when I told Papa all about everything you said about ole Dade. When I told him you said your own father and mother told you he stole horses, Papa said they must of been joking or sumpching, and he would ask your father about that, this evening, maybe; but first he told me to come and bring you over to our house right away, so you could tell him where you had heard all those other things about ole Dade’s getting him to sign papers and everything. So hurry and come on, Penrod, ‘cause he’s waiting. You can come, too, Sam, if you want to.”
“Me?” Sam looked at Penrod, who stood staring open-mouthed at Marjorie. “No,” Sam said uneasily. “I guess I got to be gettin’ along home pretty soon. I expeck I ought to go give John Carmichael a Jjath or sumpthing, proba’ly.”
“Come on, Penrod,” Marjorie urged. “Papa said he wanted you to come right away.”
But an increasing perturbation had seized upon Penrod. “Right away?” he said, frowning. “I don’t believe I ought to — anyhow not right away, Marjorie.”
“What!” she cried indignantly. “When my Papa says—”
“Well, I guess I got to ast my mother first,” Penrod interrupted, with a heat of conscience never before perceived in him by either of his present companions. “I can’t go unless my mother says I can, I guess, can I?”
“Well run ast her,” said Marjorie, somewhat taken aback but retaining her presence of mind. “I’ll wait for you while you run and—”
“She might not be home,” Penrod objected. “She might of gone out somewhere. I shouldn’t be supprised if she went out to see an ole aunt o’ mine that lives ‘way out in the country. I guess that must be where she did go.”
“She did not!” Marjorie asserted. “I saw her lookin’ out of a window at us about two minutes ago. Hurry, Penrod! Run ast her, and I’ll wait. Of course she’ll let you if you tell her Papa wants you.”
Penrod seemed to deliberate. “Well, looky here,” he said slowly. “This is the best way we better fix it. You go on ahead, because I expeck you better hurry; and I’ll go on upstairs and ast Mamma if I can go over to your house, and then if she says I can—”
“Why, of course she will!”
“Well, if she does, I’ll hurry and run after you and proba’ly catch you before you get there. You better start right away, Marjorie.”
She looked perplexed and a little troubled. “Well, why don’t you go ast your mother — if you’re going to, Penrod?”
“Well, I am.” He walked toward the front door. “I’m goin’ in just as soon as you start.”
“Well—” Marjorie said irresolutely; but his suggestion seemed plausible — or perhaps she felt herself ill-equipp
ed for further argument with him. At all events, she began to move toward home, at the same time looking back over her shoulder and making gestures to urge greater haste upon him. “Please, hurry!” she called. “I’ll tell Papa you’re comin’ right away.” Then she trotted off down the street obediently, with the sunshine dancing prettily through her undulating amber curls.
But Penrod, gazing after her, as he continued to move at a snail’s pace toward the house, found little pleasure in this picture, and the expression of uneasiness upon the countenance of Master Williams had deepened, though, naturally, this uneasiness of Sam’s was far less than that of his friend. For the moment, both boys were inarticulate; yet undoubtedly they shared in a common emotion, to which Sam finally gave a certain amount of expression. “Well, anyhow,” he said plaintively, “I and Herman and Verman never did a single thing you didn’t tell us to, Penrod.”
The implications of this bit of self-defense were voluminous, so to speak, and fell upon Penrod heavily. Already, he began to look horrified; it might have been thought that he was not in the best of health. For the thing that a boy most shrinks from — that is, having his private affairs ex posed, and himself involved in the mysteries of grown-up jurisprudence, where intentions go for nothing and all is incalculable and ominous — this thing, it seemed, was happening to him.
“Well—” he said, and, swallowing heavily, said noth ing more.
“She’s motioning to you to go on in and ask your mother,” Sam said, still gazing down the street after Marjorie, and he added, with severity, “You better hurry and do it, too, because I guess the sooner you get there the better for you, Penrod!” He turned toward his own home, and, although his uneasiness remained upon him, he contrived to assume the air of a self-righteous person not involved in consequences probably about to descend upon people of questionable conduct. “P can’t hang around here any longer,” he said, as if in reply to a suggestion that caused him some indignation. “I guess John Carmichael’s got a right to have a bath once this summer, anyway! Even a poor dog’s got a right to exneck a little good treatment and not to haf to let his fleas eat him up alive!”
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 446