“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” he returned, striding to the
open window and looking out. “Go on.”
“Oh,” she moaned, “it must be kept
from Clara—and I’ll never hold up
my head again if John Farry ever hears of it!”
“Hears of what?”
“Well, I just couldn’t stand it, I got
so curious; and I thought of course if Miss Spence
had become a little unbalanced it was my duty
to know it, as Penrod’s mother and she his teacher;
so I thought I would just call on her at her apartment
after school and have a chat and see and I did and—oh——”
“Well?”
“I’ve just come from there, and she told
me—she told me! Oh, I’ve never
known anything like this!”
“What did she tell you?”
Mrs. Schofield, making a great effort, managed to
assume a temporary appearance of calm. “Henry,”
she said solemnly, “bear this in mind:
whatever you do to Penrod, it must be done in some
place when Clara won’t hear it. But the
first thing to do is to find him.”
Within view of the window from which Mr. Schofield
was gazing was the closed door of the storeroom in
the stable, and just outside this door Duke was performing
a most engaging trick.
His young master had taught Duke to “sit up
and beg” when he wanted anything, and if that
didn’t get it, to “speak.” Duke
was facing the closed door and sitting up and begging,
and now he also spoke—in a loud, clear
bark.
There was an open transom over the door, and from
this descended—hurled by an unseen agency—a
can half filled with old paint.
It caught the small besieger of the door on his thoroughly
surprised right ear, encouraged him to some remarkable
acrobatics, and turned large portions of him a dull
blue. Allowing only a moment to perplexity, and
deciding, after a single and evidently unappetizing
experiment, not to cleanse himself of paint, the loyal
animal resumed his quaint, upright posture.
Mr. Schofield seated himself on the window-sill, whence
he could keep in view that pathetic picture of unrequited
love.
“Go on with your story, mamma,” he said.
“I think I can find Penrod when we want him.”
And a few minutes later he added, “And I think
I know the place to do it in.”
Again the faithful voice of Duke was heard, pleading
outside the bolted door.
“One-two-three; one-two-three—glide!”
said Professor Bartet, emphasizing his instructions
by a brisk collision of his palms at “glide.”
“One-two-three; one-two-three—glide!”
The school week was over, at last, but Penrod’s
troubles were not.
Round and round the ballroom went the seventeen struggling
little couples of the Friday Afternoon Dancing Class.
Round and round went their reflections with them,
swimming rhythmically in the polished, dark floor—white
and blue and pink for the girls; black, with dabs of
white, for the white-collared, white-gloved boys;
and sparks and slivers of high light everywhere as
the glistening pumps flickered along the surface like
a school of flying fish. Every small pink face—with
one exception—was painstaking and set for
duty. It was a conscientious little merry-go-round.
