Penrod and Sam

by Booth Tarkington

  CHAPTER XV. A MODEL LETTER TO A FRIEND

  On Monday morning Penrod's faith in the coming of another Saturdaywas flaccid and lustreless. Those Japanese lovers who were promised areunion after ten thousand years in separate hells were brighter withhope than he was. On Monday Penrod was virtually an agnostic.

  Nowhere upon his shining morning face could have been read any eageranticipation of useful knowledge. Of course he had been told that schoolwas for his own good; in fact, he had been told and told and told, butthe words conveying this information, meaningless at first, assumed,with each repetition, more and more the character of dull andunsolicited insult.

  He was wholly unable to imagine circumstances, present or future, underwhich any of the instruction and training he was now receiving couldbe of the slightest possible use or benefit to himself; and when he wasinformed that such circumstances would frequently arise in his laterlife, he but felt the slur upon his coming manhood and its power toprevent any such unpleasantness.

  If it were possible to place a romantic young Broadway actor and athleteunder hushing supervision for six hours a day, compelling him tobend his unremittent attention upon the city directory of Sheboygan,Wisconsin, he could scarce be expected to respond genially to frequentstatements that the compulsion was all for his own good. On thecontrary, it might be reasonable to conceive his response as taking theform of action, which is precisely the form that Penrod's smoulderingimpulse yearned to take.

  To Penrod school was merely a state of confinement, envenomed bymathematics. For interminable periods he was forced to listen toinformation concerning matters about which he had no curiosity whatever;and he had to read over and over the dullest passages in books thatbored him into stupors, while always there overhung the preposteroustask of improvising plausible evasions to conceal the fact that hedid not know what he had no wish to know. Likewise, he must always beprepared to avoid incriminating replies to questions that he felt nobodyhad a real and natural right to ask him. And when his gorge rose and hisinwards revolted, the hours became a series of ignoble misadventures andpetty disgraces strikingly lacking in privacy.

  It was usually upon Wednesday that his sufferings culminated; thenervous strength accumulated during the holiday hours at the end of theweek would carry him through Monday and Tuesday; but by Wednesday itseemed ultimately proven that the next Saturday actually never wascoming, "this time", and the strained spirit gave way. Wednesday was theday averaging highest in Penrod's list of absences; but the time camewhen he felt that the advantages attendant upon his Wednesday "sickheadache" did not compensate for its inconveniences.

  For one thing, this illness had become so symmetrically recurrent thateven the cook felt that he was pushing it too far, and the liveliness ofher expression, when he was able to leave his couch and take the air inthe backyard at about ten o'clock, became more disagreeable to himwith each convalescence. There visibly increased, too, about the wholehousehold, an atmosphere of uncongeniality and suspicion so pronouncedthat every successive illness was necessarily more severe, and at lastthe patient felt obliged to remain bedded until almost eleven, fromtime to time giving forth pathetic little sounds eloquent of anguishtriumphing over Stoic endurance, yet lacking a certain conviction ofutterance.

  Finally, his father enacted, and his mother applied, a new anddistinctly special bit of legislation, explaining it with simple candourto the prospective beneficiary.

  "Whenever you really ARE sick," they said, "you can go out and play assoon as you're well--that is, if it happens on Saturday. But when you'resick on a school-day, you'll stay in bed till the next morning. This isgoing to do you good, Penrod."

  Physically, their opinion appeared to be affirmed, for Wednesday afterWednesday passed without any recurrence of the attack; but the spiritualstrain may have been damaging. And it should be added that if Penrod'shigher nature did suffer from the strain, he was not unique. For,confirming the effect of Wednesday upon boys in general, it is probablethat, if full statistics concerning cats were available, they wouldshow that cats dread Wednesdays, and that their fear is shared byother animals, and would be shared, to an extent by windows, if windowspossessed nervous systems. Nor must this probable apprehension onthe part of cats and the like be thought mere superstition. Cats havesuperstitions, it is true; but certain actions inspired by the sight ofa boy with a missile in his hand are better evidence of the workings oflogic upon a practical nature than of faith in the supernatural.

  Moreover, the attention of family physicians and specialists should bedrawn to these significant though obscure phenomena; for the sufferingof cats is a barometer of the nerve-pressure of boys, and it maybe accepted as sufficiently established that Wednesday--afterschool-hours--is the worst time for cats.

  After the promulgation of that parental edict, "You'll stay in bed tillthe next morning", four weeks went by unflawed by a single absence fromthe field of duty; but, when the fifth Wednesday came, Penrod held soredebate within himself before he finally rose. In fact, after rising,and while actually engaged with his toilet, he tentatively emittedthe series of little moans that was his wonted preliminary to a quietholiday at home; and the sound was heard (as intended) by Mr. Schofield,who was passing Penrod's door on his way to breakfast.

  "ALL right!" the father said, making use of peculiar and unnecessaryemphasis. "Stay in bed till to-morrow morning. Castor-oil, this time,too."

  Penrod had not hoped much for his experiment; nevertheless hisrebellious blood was sensibly inflamed by the failure, and heaccompanied his dressing with a low murmuring--apparently a bitterdialogue between himself and some unknown but powerful patron.

  Thus he muttered:

  "Well, they better NOT!" "Well, what can I DO about it?" "Well, I'D show'em!" "Well, I WILL show 'em!" "Well, you OUGHT to show 'em; that's theway _I_ do! I just shake 'em around, and say, 'Here! I guess you don'tknow who you're talkin' to like that! You better look out!'" "Well,that's the way _I_'m goin' to do!" "Well, go on and DO it, then!" "Well,I AM goin'--"

  The door of the next room was slightly ajar; now it swung wide, andMargaret appeared.

  "Penrod, what on earth are you talking about?"

  "Nothin'. None o' your--"

  "Well, hurry to breakfast, then; it's getting late."

  Lightly she went, humming a tune, leaving the door of her room open, andthe eyes of Penrod, as he donned his jacket, chanced to fall upon herdesk, where she had thoughtlessly left a letter--a private missive justbegun, and intended solely for the eyes of Mr. Robert Williams, a seniorat a far university.

  In such a fashion is coincidence the architect of misfortune. Penrod'sclass in English composition had been instructed, the previous day, toconcoct at home and bring to class on Wednesday morning, "a model letterto a friend on some subject of general interest." Penalty for omissionto perform this simple task was definite; whosoever brought no letterwould inevitably be "kept in" after school, that afternoon, untilthe letter was written, and it was precisely a premonition of thismisfortune that had prompted Penrod to attempt his experimental moaningupon his father, for, alas! he had equipped himself with no modelletter, nor any letter whatever.

  In stress of this kind, a boy's creed is that anything is worth a try;but his eye for details is poor. He sees the future too sweepingly andtoo much as he would have it seldom providing against inconsistencies ofevidence that may damage him. For instance, there is a well-knowncase of two brothers who exhibited to their parents, with patheticconfidence, several imported dried herring on a string, as a proof thatthe afternoon had been spent, not at a forbidden circus, but with hookand line upon the banks of a neighbouring brook.

  So with Penrod. He had vital need of a letter, and there before hiseyes, upon Margaret's desk, was apparently the precise thing he needed!

  From below rose the voice of his mother urging him to thebreakfast-table, warning him that he stood in danger of tardiness atschool; he was pressed for time, and acted upon an inspiration thatfailed to prompt him even to re
ad the letter.

  Hurriedly he wrote "Dear freind" at the top of the page Margaret hadpartially filled. Then he signed himself "Yours respectfuly, PenrodSchofield" at the bottom, and enclosed the missive within a batteredvolume entitled, "Principles of English Composition." With that andother books compacted by a strap, he descended to a breakfast somewhatoppressive but undarkened by any misgivings concerning a "letter to afriend on some subject of general interest." He felt that a difficultyhad been encountered and satisfactorily disposed of; the matter couldnow be dismissed from his mind. He had plenty of other difficulties totake its place.

  No; he had no misgivings, nor was he assailed by anything unpleasantin that line, even when the hour struck for the class in Englishcomposition. If he had been two or three years older, experience mighthave warned him to take at least the precaution of copying his offering,so that it would appear in his own handwriting when he "handed it in";but Penrod had not even glanced at it.

  "I think," Miss Spence said, "I will ask several of you to read yourletters aloud before you hand them in. Clara Raypole, you may readyours."

  Penrod was bored but otherwise comfortable; he had no apprehensionthat he might be included in the "several," especially as Miss Spence'sbeginning with Clara Raypole, a star performer, indicated that herselection of readers would be made from the conscientious and proficientdivision at the head of the class. He listened stoically to thebeginning of the first letter, though he was conscious of a dullresentment, inspired mainly by the perfect complacency of Miss Raypole'svoice.

  "'Dear Cousin Sadie,'" she began smoothly, "'I thought I would writeyou to-day on some subject of general interest, and so I thought Iwould tell you about the subject of our court-house. It is a very finebuilding situated in the centre of the city, and a visit to the buildingafter school hours well repays for the visit. Upon entrance we find uponour left the office of the county clerk and upon our right a number ofwindows affording a view of the street. And so we proceed, finding onboth sides much of general interest. The building was begun in 1886A.D. and it was through in 1887 A.D. It is four stories high and madeof stone, pressed brick, wood, and tiles, with a tower, or cupola, onehundred and twenty-seven feet seven inches from the ground. Among othersubjects of general interest told by the janitor, we learn that thearchitect of the building was a man named Flanner, and the foundationsextend fifteen feet five inches under the ground.'"

  Penrod was unable to fix his attention upon these statistics; he beganmoodily to twist a button of his jacket and to concentrate a new-bornand obscure but lasting hatred upon the court-house. Miss Raypole's glibvoice continued to press upon his ears; but, by keeping his eyes fixedupon the twisting button he had accomplished a kind of self-hypnosis, ormental anaesthesia, and was but dimly aware of what went on about him.

  The court-house was finally exhausted by its visitor, who resumed herseat and submitted with beamish grace to praise. Then Miss Spence said,in a favourable manner:

  "Georgie Bassett, you may read your letter next."

  The neat Georgie rose, nothing loath, and began: "'Dear Teacher--'"

  There was a slight titter, which Miss Spence suppressed. Georgie was notat all discomfited.

  "'My mother says,'" he continued, reading his manuscript, "'we shouldtreat our teacher as a friend, and so _I_ will write YOU a letter.'"

  This penetrated Penrod's trance, and he lifted his eyes to fix them uponthe back of Georgie Bassett's head in a long and inscrutable stare. Itwas inscrutable, and yet if Georgie had been sensitive to thought waves,it is probable that he would have uttered a loud shriek; but he remainedplacidly unaware, continuing:

  "'I thought I would write you about a subject of general interest, andso I will write you about the flowers. There are many kinds of flowers,spring flowers, and summer flowers, and autumn flowers, but no winterflowers. Wild flowers grow in the woods, and it is nice to hunt them inspringtime, and we must remember to give some to the poor and hospitals,also. Flowers can be made to grow in flower-beds and placed in vases inhouses. There are many names for flowers, but _I_ call them "nature'sornaments.--'"

  Penrod's gaze had relaxed, drooped to his button again, and his lethargywas renewed. The outer world grew vaguer; voices seemed to drone at adistance; sluggish time passed heavily--but some of it did pass.

  "Penrod!"

  Miss Spence's searching eye had taken note of the bent head and thetwisting button. She found it necessary to speak again.

  "Penrod Schofield!"

  He came languidly to life.

  "Ma'am?"

  "You may read your letter."

  "Yes'm."

  And he began to paw clumsily among his books, whereupon Miss Spence'sglance fired with suspicion.

  "Have you prepared one?" she demanded.

  "Yes'm," said Penrod dreamily.

  "But you're going to find you forgot to bring it, aren't you?"

  "I got it," said Penrod, discovering the paper in his "Principles ofEnglish Composition."

  "Well, we'll listen to what you've found time to prepare," she said,adding coldly, "for once!"

  The frankest pessimism concerning Penrod permeated the whole room; eventhe eyes of those whose letters had not met with favour turned upon himwith obvious assurance that here was every prospect of a performancethat would, by comparison, lend a measure of credit to the worstpreceding it. But Penrod was unaffected by the general gaze; he rose,still blinking from his lethargy, and in no true sense wholly alive.

  He had one idea: to read as rapidly as possible, so as to be done withthe task, and he began in a high-pitched monotone, reading with a blindmind and no sense of the significance of the words.

  "'Dear friend,"' he declaimed. "'You call me beautiful, but I am notreally beautiful, and there are times when I doubt if I am even pretty,though perhaps my hair is beautiful, and if it is true that my eyes arelike blue stars in heaven--'"

  Simultaneously he lost his breath and there burst upon him a perceptionof the results to which he was being committed by this calamitousreading. And also simultaneous the outbreak of the class intocachinnations of delight, severely repressed by the perplexed butindignant Miss Spence.

  "Go on!" she commanded grimly, when she had restored order.

  "Ma'am?" he gulped, looking wretchedly upon the rosy faces all abouthim.

  "Go on with the description of yourself," she said. "We'd like to hearsome more about your eyes being like blue stars in heaven."

  Here many of Penrod's little comrades were forced to clasp their facestightly in both hands; and his dismayed gaze, in refuge, sought thetreacherous paper in his hand.

  What it beheld there was horrible.

  "Proceed!" Miss Spence said.

  "'I--often think,'" he faltered, "'and a-a tree-more th-thrills my bein'when I REcall your last words to me--that last--that last--that--'"

  "GO ON!"

  "'That last evening in the moonlight when you--you--you--'"

  "Penrod," Miss Spence said dangerously, "you go on, and stop thatstammering."

  "'You--you said you would wait for--for years to--to--to--to--"

  "PENROD!"

  "'To win me!'" the miserable Penrod managed to gasp. "'I should nothave pre--premitted--permitted you to speak so until we have our--ourparents' con-consent; but oh, how sweet it--'" He exhaled a sighof agony, and then concluded briskly, "'Yours respectfully, PenrodSchofield.'"

  But Miss Spence had at last divined something, for she knew theSchofield family.

  "Bring me that letter!" she said.

  And the scarlet boy passed forward between rows of mystified butimmoderately uplifted children.

  Miss Spence herself grew rather pink as she examined the missive, andthe intensity with which she afterward extended her examination tocover the complete field of Penrod Schofield caused him to find a remotecentre of interest whereon to rest his embarrassed gaze. She let himstand before her throughout a silence, equalled, perhaps, by the tenserpauses during trials for murder, and then, contain
ing herself, shesweepingly gestured him to the pillory--a chair upon the platform,facing the school.

  Here he suffered for the unusual term of an hour, with many jocular andcunning eyes constantly upon him; and, when he was released at noon,horrid shouts and shrieks pursued him every step of his homeward way.For his laughter-loving little schoolmates spared him not--neither boynor girl.

  "Yay, Penrod!" they shouted. "How's your beautiful hair?" And, "Hi,Penrod! When you goin' to get your parents' consent?" And, "Say, bluestars in heaven, how's your beautiful eyes?" And, "Say, Penrod, how'syour tree-mores?" "Does your tree-mores thrill your bein', Penrod?" Andmany other facetious inquiries, hard to bear in public.

  And when he reached the temporary shelter of his home, he experiencedno relief upon finding that Margaret was out for lunch. He was as deeplyembittered toward her as toward any other, and, considering her largelyresponsible for his misfortune, he would have welcomed an opportunity toshow her what he thought of her.