His eloquence increased with what it fed on; and as
with the eloquence so with self-reproach in the gentle
bosom of the teacher. She cleared her throat
with difficulty once or twice, during his description
of his ministering night with Aunt Clara. “And
I said to her, ’Why, Aunt Clara, what’s
the use of takin’ on so about it?’ And
I said, ’Now, Aunt Clara, all the crying in
the world can’t make things any better.’
And then she’d just keep catchin’ hold
of me, and sob and kind of holler, and I’d say,
‘don’t cry, Aunt Clara—please
don’t cry."’
Then, under the influence of some fragmentary survivals
of the respectable portion of his Sunday adventures,
his theme became more exalted; and, only partially
misquoting a phrase from a psalm, he related how he
had made it of comfort to Aunt Clara, and how he had
besought her to seek Higher guidance in her trouble.
The surprising thing about a structure such as Penrod
was erecting is that the taller it becomes the more
ornamentation it will stand. Gifted boys have
this faculty of building magnificence upon cobwebs—and
Penrod was gifted. Under the spell of his really
great performance, Miss Spence gazed more and more
sweetly upon the prodigy of spiritual beauty and goodness
before her, until at last, when Penrod came to the
explanation of his “just thinking,” she
was forced to turn her head away.
“You mean, dear,” she said gently, “that
you were all worn out and hardly knew what you were
saying?”
“Yes’m.”
“And you were thinking about all those dreadful
things so hard that you forgot where you were?”
“I was thinking,” he said simply, “how
to save Uncle John.”
And the end of it for this mighty boy was that the
teacher kissed him!
The returning students, that afternoon, observed that
Penrod’s desk was vacant—and nothing
could have been more impressive than that sinister
mere emptiness. The accepted theory was that Penrod
had been arrested. How breathtaking, then, the
sensation when, at the beginning of the second hour,
he strolled—in with inimitable carelessness
and, rubbing his eyes, somewhat noticeably in the
manner of one who has snatched an hour of much needed
sleep, took his place as if nothing in particular
had happened. This, at first supposed to be a
superhuman exhibition of sheer audacity, became but
the more dumfounding when Miss Spence—looking
up from her desk—greeted him with a pleasant
little nod. Even after school, Penrod gave numerous
maddened investigators no relief. All he would
consent to say was:
“Oh, I just talked to her.”
A mystification not entirely unconnected with the
one thus produced was manifested at his own family
dinner-table the following evening. Aunt Clara
had been out rather late, and came to the table after
the rest were seated. She wore a puzzled expression.
