For some reason, he put a considerable distance between
himself and the taffy-stand, but before long halted
in the presence of a red-faced man who flourished
a long fork over a small cooking apparatus and shouted
jovially: “Winnies! Here’s
your hot winnies! Hot winny-wurst! Food
for the over-worked brain, nourishing for the weak
stummick, entertaining for the tired business man!
Here’s your hot winnies, three for a nickel,
a half-a-dime, the twentieth-pot-of-a-dollah!”
This, above all nectar and ambrosia, was the favourite
dish of Penrod Schofield. Nothing inside him
now craved it—on the contrary! But
memory is the great hypnotist; his mind argued against
his inwards that opportunity knocked at his door:
“winny-wurst” was rigidly forbidden by
the home authorities. Besides, there was a last
nickel in his pocket; and nature protested against
its survival. Also, the redfaced man had himself
proclaimed his wares nourishing for the weak stummick.
Penrod placed the nickel in the red hand of the red-faced
man.
He ate two of the three greasy, cigarlike shapes cordially
pressed upon him in return. The first bite convinced
him that he had made a mistake; these winnies seemed
of a very inferior flavour, almost unpleasant, in
fact. But he felt obliged to conceal his poor
opinion of them, for fear of offending the red-faced
man. He ate without haste or eagerness—so
slowly, indeed, that he began to think the redfaced
man might dislike him, as a deterrent of trade.
Perhaps Penrod’s mind was not working well,
for he failed to remember that no law compelled him
to remain under the eye of the red-faced man, but
the virulent repulsion excited by his attempt to take
a bite of the third sausage inspired him with at least
an excuse for postponement.
“Mighty good,” he murmured feebly, placing
the sausage in the pocket of his jacket with a shaking
hand. “Guess I’ll save this one to
eat at home, after—after dinner.”
He moved sluggishly away, wishing he had not thought
of dinner. A side-show, undiscovered until now,
failed to arouse his interest, not even exciting a
wish that he had known of its existence when he had
money. For a time he stared without attraction;
the weather-worn colours conveying no meaning to comprehension
at a huge canvas poster depicting the chief his torpid
eye. Then, little by little, the poster became
more vivid to his consciousness. There was a
greenish-tinted person in the tent, it seemed, who
thrived upon a reptilian diet.
Suddenly, Penrod decided that it was time to go home.
“Indeed, doctor,” said Mrs. Schofield,
with agitation and profound conviction, just after
eight o’clock that evening, “I shall always
believe in mustard plasters—mustard plasters
and hot—water bags. If it hadn’t
been for them I don’t believed he’d have
lived till you got here—I do not!”
