Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “Dan kills the rats. See?” hissed the fat-faced boy, maintaining the horrible juxtaposition.

  “Well, all right,” said Penrod, swallowing. “I don’t want ’em much.” And when the pose had been relaxed, he stared at his new friend for a moment, almost with reverence. Then he brightened.

  “Come on, Rupe!” he cried enthusiastically, as he climbed the fence. “We’ll give our dogs a little live meat— ‘bo!”

  CHAPTER XXII THE IMITATOR

  AT THE DINNER-TABLE, that evening, Penrod Surprised his family by remarking, in a voice they had never heard him attempt — a law-giving voice of intentional gruffness:

  “Any man that’s makin’ a hunderd dollars a month is makin’ good money.”

  “What?” asked Mr. Schofield, staring, for the previous conversation had concerned the illness of an infant relative in Council Bluffs.

  “Any man that’s makin’ a hunderd dollars a month is makin’ good money.”

  “What IS he talking about!” Margaret appealed to the invisible.

  “Well,” said Penrod, frowning, “that’s what foremen at the ladder works get.”

  “How in the world do you know?” asked his mother.

  “Well, I KNOW it! A hunderd dollars a month is good money, I tell you!”

  “Well, what of it?” said the father, impatiently.

  “Nothin’. I only said it was good money.”

  Mr. Schofield shook his head, dismissing the subject; and here he made a mistake: he should have followed up his son’s singular contribution to the conversation. That would have revealed the fact that there was a certain Rupe Collins whose father was a foreman at the ladder works. All clues are important when a boy makes his first remark in a new key.

  “‘Good money’?” repeated Margaret, curiously. “What is ‘good’ money?”

  Penrod turned upon her a stern glance. “Say, wouldn’t you be just as happy if you had SOME sense?”

  “Penrod!” shouted his father. But Penrod’s mother gazed with dismay at her son: he had never before spoken like that to his sister.

  Mrs. Schofield might have been more dismayed than she was, if she had realized that it was the beginning of an epoch. After dinner, Penrod was slightly scalded in the back as the result of telling Della, the cook, that there was a wart on the middle finger of her right hand. Della thus proving poor material for his new manner to work upon, he approached Duke, in the backyard, and, bending double, seized the lowly animal by the forepaws.

  “I let you know my name’s Penrod Schofield,” hissed the boy. He protruded his underlip ferociously, scowled, and thrust forward his head until his nose touched the dog’s. “And you better look out when Penrod Schofield’s around, or you’ll get in big trouble! YOU UNDERSTAN’ THAT, ‘BO?”

  The next day, and the next, the increasing change in Penrod puzzled and distressed his family, who had no idea of its source.

  How might they guess that hero-worship takes such forms? They were vaguely conscious that a rather shabby boy, not of the neighbourhood, came to “play” with Penrod several times; but they failed to connect this circumstance with the peculiar behaviour of the son of the house, whose ideals (his father remarked) seemed to have suddenly become identical with those of Gyp the Blood.

  Meanwhile, for Penrod himself, “life had taken on new meaning, new richness.” He had become a fighting man — in conversation at least. “Do you want to know how I do when they try to slip up on me from behind?” he asked Della. And he enacted for her unappreciative eye a scene of fistic manoeuvres wherein he held an imaginary antagonist helpless in a net of stratagems.

  Frequently, when he was alone, he would outwit, and pummel this same enemy, and, after a cunning feint, land a dolorous stroke full upon a face of air. “There! I guess you’ll know better next time. That’s the way we do up at the Third!”

  Sometimes, in solitary pantomime, he encountered more than one opponent at a time, for numbers were apt to come upon him treacherously, especially at a little after his rising hour, when he might be caught at a disadvantage — perhaps standing on one leg to encase the other in his knickerbockers. Like lightning, he would hurl the trapping garment from him, and, ducking and pivoting, deal great sweeping blows among the circle of sneaking devils. (That was how he broke the clock in his bedroom.) And while these battles were occupying his attention, it was a waste of voice to call him to breakfast, though if his mother, losing patience, came to his room, she would find him seated on the bed pulling at a stocking. “Well, ain’t I coming fast as I CAN?”

  At the table and about the house generally he was bumptious, loud with fatuous misinformation, and assumed a domineering tone, which neither satire nor reproof seemed able to reduce: but it was among his own intimates that his new superiority was most outrageous. He twisted the fingers and squeezed the necks of all the boys of the neighbourhood, meeting their indignation with a hoarse and rasping laugh he had acquired after short practice in the stable, where he jeered and taunted the lawn-mower, the garden-scythe and the wheelbarrow quite out of countenance.

  Likewise he bragged to the other boys by the hour, Rupe Collins being the chief subject of encomium — next to Penrod himself. “That’s the way we do up at the Third,” became staple explanation of violence, for Penrod, like Tartarin, was plastic in the hands of his own imagination, and at times convinced himself that he really was one of those dark and murderous spirits exclusively of whom “the Third” was composed — according to Rupe Collins.

  Then, when Penrod had exhausted himself repeating to nausea accounts of the prowess of himself and his great friend, he would turn to two other subjects for vainglory. These were his father and Duke.

  Mothers must accept the fact that between babyhood and manhood their sons do not boast of them. The boy, with boys, is a Choctaw; and either the influence or the protection of women is shameful. “Your mother won’t let you,” is an insult. But, “My father won’t let me,” is a dignified explanation and cannot be hooted. A boy is ruined among his fellows if he talks much of his mother or sisters; and he must recognize it as his duty to offer at least the appearance of persecution to all things ranked as female, such as cats and every species of fowl. But he must champion his father and his dog, and, ever, ready to pit either against any challenger, must picture both as ravening for battle and absolutely unconquerable.

  Penrod, of course, had always talked by the code, but, under the new stimulus, Duke was represented virtually as a cross between Bob, Son of Battle, and a South American vampire; and this in spite of the fact that Duke himself often sat close by, a living lie, with the hope of peace in his heart. As for Penrod’s father, that gladiator was painted as of sentiments and dimensions suitable to a super-demon composed of equal parts of Goliath, Jack Johnson and the Emperor Nero.

  Even Penrod’s walk was affected; he adopted a gait which was a kind of taunting swagger; and, when he passed other children on the street, he practised the habit of feinting a blow; then, as the victim dodged, he rasped the triumphant horse laugh which he gradually mastered to horrible perfection. He did this to Marjorie Jones — ay! this was their next meeting, and such is Eros, young! What was even worse, in Marjorie’s opinion, he went on his way without explanation, and left her standing on the corner talking about it, long after he was out of hearing.

  Within five days from his first encounter with Rupe Collins, Penrod had become unbearable. He even almost alienated Sam Williams, who for a time submitted to finger twisting and neck squeezing and the new style of conversation, but finally declared that Penrod made him “sick.” He made the statement with fervour, one sultry afternoon, in Mr. Schofield’s stable, in the presence of Herman and Verman.

  “You better look out, ‘bo,” said Penrod, threateningly. “I’ll show you a little how we do up at the Third.”

  “Up at the Third!” Sam repeated with scorn. “You haven’t ever been up there.”

  “I haven’t?” cried Penrod. “I HAVEN’T?”


  “No, you haven’t!”

  “Looky here!” Penrod, darkly argumentative, prepared to perform the eye-to-eye business. “When haven’t I been up there?”

  “You haven’t NEVER been up there!” In spite of Penrod’s closely approaching nose Sam maintained his ground, and appealed for confirmation. “Has he, Herman?”

  “I don’ reckon so,” said Herman, laughing.

  “WHAT!” Penrod transferred his nose to the immediate vicinity of Herman’s nose. “You don’t reckon so, ‘bo, don’t you? You better look out how you reckon around here! YOU UNDERSTAN’ THAT, ‘BO?”

  Herman bore the eye-to-eye very well; indeed, it seemed to please him, for he continued to laugh while Verman chuckled delightedly. The brothers had been in the country picking berries for a week, and it happened that this was their first experience of the new manifestation of Penrod.

  “HAVEN’T I been up at the Third?” the sinister Penrod demanded.

  “I don’ reckon so. How come you ast ME?”

  “Didn’t you just hear me SAY I been up there?”

  “Well,” said Herman mischievously, “hearin’ ain’t believin’!”

  Penrod clutched him by the back of the neck, but Herman, laughing loudly, ducked and released himself at once, retreating to the wall.

  “You take that back!” Penrod shouted, striking out wildly.

  “Don’ git mad,” begged the small darky, while a number of blows falling upon his warding arms failed to abate his amusement, and a sound one upon the cheek only made him laugh the more unrestrainedly. He behaved exactly as if Penrod were tickling him, and his brother, Verman, rolled with joy in a wheelbarrow. Penrod pummelled till he was tired, and produced no greater effect.

  “There!” he panted, desisting finally. “NOW I reckon you know whether I been up there or not!”

  Herman rubbed his smitten cheek. “Pow!” he exclaimed. “Pow-ee! You cert’ny did lan’ me good one NAT time! Oo-ee! she HURT!”

  “You’ll get hurt worse’n that,” Penrod assured him, “if you stay around here much. Rupe Collins is comin’ this afternoon, he said. We’re goin’ to make some policemen’s billies out of the rake handle.”

  “You go’ spoil new rake you’ pa bought?”

  “What do WE care? I and Rupe got to have billies, haven’t we?”

  “How you make ’em?”

  “Melt lead and pour in a hole we’re goin’ to make in the end of ’em. Then we’re goin’ to carry ’em in our pockets, and if anybody says anything to us — OH, oh! look out! They won’t get a crack on the head — OH, no!”

  “When’s Rupe Collins coming?” Sam Williams inquired rather uneasily. He had heard a great deal too much of this personage, but as yet the pleasure of actual acquaintance had been denied him.

  “He’s liable to be here any time,” answered Penrod. “You better look out. You’ll be lucky if you get home alive, if you stay till HE comes.”

  “I ain’t afraid of him,” Sam returned, conventionally.

  “You are, too!” (There was some truth in the retort.) “There ain’t any boy in this part of town but me that wouldn’t be afraid of him. You’d be afraid to talk to him. You wouldn’t get a word out of your mouth before old Rupie’d have you where you’d wished you never come around HIM, lettin’ on like you was so much! YOU wouldn’t run home yellin’ ‘Mom-muh’ or nothin’! OH, no!”

  “Who Rupe Collins?” asked Herman.

  “‘Who Rupe Collins?’” Penrod mocked, and used his rasping laugh, but, instead of showing fright, Herman appeared to think he was meant to laugh, too; and so he did, echoed by Verman. “You just hang around here a little while longer,” Penrod added, grimly, “and you’ll find out who Rupe Collins is, and I pity YOU when you do!”

  “What he go’ do?”

  “You’ll see; that’s all! You just wait and — —”

  At this moment a brown hound ran into the stable through the alley door, wagged a greeting to Penrod, and fraternized with Duke. The fat-faced boy appeared upon the threshold and gazed coldly about the little company in the carriage-house, whereupon the coloured brethren, ceasing from merriment, were instantly impassive, and Sam Williams moved a little nearer the door leading into the yard.

  Obviously, Sam regarded the newcomer as a redoubtable if not ominous figure. He was a head taller than either Sam or Penrod; head and shoulders taller than Herman, who was short for his age; and Verman could hardly be used for purposes of comparison at all, being a mere squat brown spot, not yet quite nine years on this planet. And to Sam’s mind, the aspect of Mr. Collins realized Penrod’s portentous foreshadowings. Upon the fat face there was an expression of truculent intolerance which had been cultivated by careful habit to such perfection that Sam’s heart sank at sight of it. A somewhat enfeebled twin to this expression had of late often decorated the visage of Penrod, and appeared upon that ingenuous surface now, as he advanced to welcome the eminent visitor.

  The host swaggered toward the door with a great deal of shoulder movement, carelessly feinting a slap at Verman in passing, and creating by various means the atmosphere of a man who has contemptuously amused himself with underlings while awaiting an equal.

  “Hello, ‘bo!” Penrod said in the deepest voice possible to him.

  “Who you callin’ ‘bo?” was the ungracious response, accompanied by immediate action of a similar nature. Rupe held Penrod’s head in the crook of an elbow and massaged his temples with a hard-pressing knuckle.

  “I was only in fun, Rupie,” pleaded the sufferer, and then, being set free, “Come here, Sam,” he said.

  “What for?”

  Penrod laughed pityingly. “Pshaw, I ain’t goin’ to hurt you. Come on.” Sam, maintaining his position near the other door, Penrod went to him and caught him round the neck.

  “Watch me, Rupie!” Penrod called, and performed upon Sam the knuckle operation which he had himself just undergone, Sam submitting mechanically, his eyes fixed with increasing uneasiness upon Rupe Collins. Sam had a premonition that something even more painful than Penrod’s knuckle was going to be inflicted upon him.

  “THAT don’ hurt,” said Penrod, pushing him away.

  “Yes, it does, too!” Sam rubbed his temple.

  “Puh! It didn’t hurt me, did it, Rupie? Come on in, Rupe: show this baby where he’s got a wart on his finger.”

  “You showed me that trick,” Sam objected. “You already did that to me. You tried it twice this afternoon and I don’t know how many times before, only you weren’t strong enough after the first time. Anyway, I know what it is, and I don’t — —”

  “Come on, Rupe,” said Penrod. “Make the baby lick dirt.”

  At this bidding, Rupe approached, while Sam, still protesting, moved to the threshold of the outer door; but Penrod seized him by the shoulders and swung him indoors with a shout.

  “Little baby wants to run home to its Mom-muh! Here he is, Rupie.”

  Thereupon was Penrod’s treachery to an old comrade properly rewarded, for as the two struggled, Rupe caught each by the back of the neck, simultaneously, and, with creditable impartiality, forced both boys to their knees.

  “Lick dirt!” he commanded, forcing them still forward, until their faces were close to the stable floor.

  At this moment he received a real surprise. With a loud whack something struck the back of his head, and, turning, he beheld Verman in the act of lifting a piece of lath to strike again.

  “Em moys ome!” said Verman, the Giant Killer.

  “He tongue-tie’,” Herman explained. “He say, let ’em boys alone.”

  Rupe addressed his host briefly:

  “Chase them nigs out o’ here!”

  “Don’ call me nig,” said Herman. “I mine my own biznuss. You let ’em boys alone.”

  Rupe strode across the still prostrate Sam, stepped upon Penrod, and, equipping his countenance with the terrifying scowl and protruded jaw, lowered his head to the level of Herman’s.

  “Ni
g, you’ll be lucky if you leave here alive!” And he leaned forward till his nose was within less than an inch of Herman’s nose.

  It could be felt that something awful was about to happen, and Penrod, as he rose from the floor, suffered an unexpected twinge of apprehension and remorse: he hoped that Rupe wouldn’t REALLY hurt Herman. A sudden dislike of Rupe and Rupe’s ways rose within him, as he looked at the big boy overwhelming the little darky with that ferocious scowl. Penrod, all at once, felt sorry about something indefinable; and, with equal vagueness, he felt foolish. “Come on, Rupe,” he suggested, feebly, “let Herman go, and let’s us make our billies out of the rake handle.”

  The rake handle, however, was not available, if Rupe had inclined to favour the suggestion. Verman had discarded his lath for the rake, which he was at this moment lifting in the air.

  “You ole black nigger,” the fat-faced boy said venomously to Herman, “I’m agoin’ to — —”

  But he had allowed his nose to remain too long near Herman’s.

  Penrod’s familiar nose had been as close with only a ticklish spinal effect upon the not very remote descendant of Congo man-eaters. The result produced by the glare of Rupe’s unfamiliar eyes, and by the dreadfully suggestive proximity of Rupe’s unfamiliar nose, was altogether different. Herman’s and Verman’s Bangala great-grandfathers never considered people of their own jungle neighbourhood proper material for a meal, but they looked upon strangers especially truculent strangers — as distinctly edible.

  Penrod and Sam heard Rupe suddenly squawk and bellow; saw him writhe and twist and fling out his arms like flails, though without removing his face from its juxtaposition; indeed, for a moment, the two heads seemed even closer.

  Then they separated — and battle was on!

  CHAPTER XXIII COLOURED TROOPS IN ACTION

  HOW NEAT AND pure is the task of the chronicler who has the tale to tell of a “good rousing fight” between boys or men who fight in the “good old English way,” according to a model set for fights in books long before Tom Brown went to Rugby. There are seconds and rounds and rules of fair-play, and always there is great good feeling in the end — though sometimes, to vary the model, “the Butcher” defeats the hero — and the chronicler who stencils this fine old pattern on his page is certain of applause as the stirrer of “red blood.” There is no surer recipe.