Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  She and her handsome companion passed along the Williams’s fence, and Robert caught the word “Princess” in Mr. Dade’s melodious voice, but bent interestedly over his book and did not look up until they had gone by. When he did lift his eyes, it seemed to him that he caught just the end of a swift gesture of Margaret’s head; he had the impression that she had glanced back over her shoulder at him.

  “Coquette!” he breathed; and then he viciously muttered the word, “Princess!” So she liked that awful sort of thing! And Robert remembered a classmate of his who had printed a poem, evidently personal and particular, called “Milady”, in a college paper early in the first freshman term, and thus acquired a nickname that had to be carefully explained to the poet’s father on class-day, four years later. “Princess!” said Robert. “Oh, all right!”

  He watched this girl of execrable taste as she sauntered up the sunshiny pavement beside Mr. Dade, and, though he loathed her romantic tendencies, he could not help feeling that her dress was the prettiest he had ever seen her wear — incomparably prettier than any dress he had ever seen any other girl wear. And she was so graceful! In the light breeze her chiffon overskirt fluttered like sunbeams on a rapid brook. He could have seen it better, he noted with annoyance, if that little darkey boy had not walked so close behind her. The little darkey boy seemed to be intending to pass Margaret and Mr. Dade and walk ahead of them, the gloomy watcher observed, but just at the last moment, when he was close alongside, he always changed his mind and fell back. About ten paces behind him walked another coloured boy, a larger one.

  Suddenly, Robert’s book fell to the floor of the verandah. Thirty or forty feet behind the second coloured boy walked Sam Williams, Robert’s brother, leading the large, reluctant pup, John Carmichael, upon a leash, and, at about the same distance to the rear of Sam came one wearing an imperious — nay, almost satanic — intensity of countenance, evidently in command. This person was he whom Robert may most creditably be represented as defining, mentally, as “that blank Penrod”. Penrod was accompanied by Duke, and at times seemed to address him vehemently, though in undertones. The observer’s eyes became luminous with wonder and curiosity. Unmistakably, here was some sort of procession!

  Robert had no impulse to interfere. If those two small negroes and Sam and Penrod and John Carmichael and Duke found themselves interested in taking a walk, as it were, with Miss Schofield and her dashing admirer, what right had any outsider to intervene? And particularly on the part of a disqualified suitor must any attempt to break up the little parade have appeared an intrusion. However, as it passed up the street, he felt warranted in going as far as the gate to look at it.

  Mr. Dade and Margaret had reached the next corner; but Robert was able to see that Mr. Dade began to be annoyed by the persistent proximity of the smaller negro. In fact, over his shoulder, Mr. Dade seemed to be addressing the little negro harshly, and the latter, to all appearances, was making a voluble and gesticulative but unsatisfactory reply. The other coloured boy, standing aloof, was calling something in the direction of Sam and Penrod, who had each moved aside from the line of vision of Mr. Dade and Margaret — Sam behind a shade-tree, and Penrod behind an ornamental stone upon an open lawn, where he had prostrated himself. The whole proceeding was somewhat conspicuous, and several people across the street had paused to observe it. However, Mr. Dade presently abandoned his argument, and he and Margaret turned the corner, as closely attended by the small negro boy as before. The larger one followed, Penrod rose cautiously, Sam came from behind his tree, and, a moment later, both of them, and their placidly accompanying dogs, disappeared in the same direction.

  Robert was profoundly interested; but his dignity did not permit him to add one more to the procession. A grimness that was far cousin to a smile came to his lips, and, as he retired into the house, the least little lightening of his sorrows was perceptible upon his countenance. As the afternoon waned and no sound or sign of a returning Sam indicated that the uninvited strollers had grown disheartened in their mysterious purpose, this alleviation of Robert’s increased, so that he appeared at the evening table with a livelier air than his worried mother had seen upon him since the day of his return from college. He even helped Sam in the latter’s excuses for being a full ten minutes late, and, after the meal was over, sought that youth’s company in the twilight of the backyard. He began by giving Sam a quarter. Sam was sincerely grateful, though hurried.

  “I’m cert’nly much obliged,” he said, moving toward the back fence. “Well, I guess I got to be goin’.”

  “Where do you have to go, Sam?”

  “Over to Penrod’s.”

  “What for?”

  “Oh, nothin’.”

  “Going to play with Penrod and those two coloured boys?”

  “I dunno,” said Sam; and, noting a tendency on the part of Robert to detain him with more conversation, he added: “Well, I’m very much obliged, Bob. Well, g’-by!” And he set his hand upon the fence to climb it.

  “Wait a minute, can’t you? I just wanted to—”

  “Honest, I got to go!”

  And in confirmation, there came a shout from the alley. It was the voice of Herman. “Hi, Tabber!” it shouted.

  “I’m cornin’, Bill,” Sam called in response.

  “We goin’ begin, Tabber,” Herman shouted again. “Ole Jawge, he waitin’ on you.”

  “I’m cornin’, ain’t I?”

  But as Sam reached the top of the fence, a detaining hand was laid upon his shoulder. “I only want to talk to you a minute, Sam.”

  “Honest, Bob, I got to go. I got—”

  Robert gave Sam another quarter.

  “Well, much obliged,” said Sam, descending from the fence. “What you want to talk about?”

  “Who was it that called you just then?”

  “It’s Herman; he’s a coloured boy.”

  “What name did he call you?”

  “Oh, nothin’. ‘Tabber’, I guess. We kind of pretend we got other names. Penrod said I’d be Tabber.” Sam laughed a little sheepishly. “He made it up, I guess.”

  “Who’s George?”

  “It’s Penrod.” Here Sam laughed again. “He’s George — George B. Jashber. Herman’s Bill and Verman’s Jim and I’m Tabber. They only took me in a few days ago, when I went over there.”

  “What were you all doing this afternoon, Sam?”

  “When?”

  “Following Penrod’s sister and — and her friend all over town.”

  Sam at once looked serious. “Well, that part of it isn’t playin’ at all. It’s — it’s a perty danger’s biznuss.”

  “So! How is it dangerous?”

  Before Sam could reply, the cry came again from the alley. “Hi, Tabber! You cornin’?”

  “Can’t you wait a minute?” Sam responded impatiently. “Honest, Bob, I can’t stay any—”

  “Oh, yes, you can,” said Robert. “For fifty cents.”

  “Well, where’s—”

  “I mean the fifty cents I’ve already given you,” Robert explained.

  “Oh,” Sam said rather, blankly, and then, appreciating the justice of his brother’s argument, he inquired, “What you want me to do?”

  “Tell me what is the dangerous business, and why you and the other boys were following those two this afternoon. First, how long did you follow them?”

  “Till they came back,” Sam said, with admirable simplicity.

  “Well, I always did believe in young people being carefully chaperoned,” Robert said thoughtfully. “It seems to me you boys behaved quite properly in this matter, Sam. What did they do?”

  “You goin’ to tell Papa and Mamma?”

  “I won’t tell anybody at all.”

  “Well, they got kind of mad, I guess,” Sam admitted. “First, they wanted Verman to keep away from ’em, but they couldn’t understand anything he said, and I guess they thought he was just goin’ the way they were, anyhow; so they went on, way out pretty ne
ar to the new park, and when they got out there, they stood around on the new bridge a good while, and then this ole Dade he tried to chase Verman back, but he couldn’t catch him. Well, and then he and Margaret went and sat around on a bench. So, afterwhile, they got up and started home, and ole Dade he just wouldn’t let Verman keep anywhere’s near ’em. He kep’ chasin’ him back all the time, and once he chased him pretty near a square — but every time ‘course Verman’d come back again, and then he’d chase him again, and Herman, too. He never saw me and Penrod; but sometimes lots of other people did, and they’d kind o’ laugh or sumpthing, and ole Dade, ‘course he thought it was all Verman’s fault — but he never did catch him.”

  “Thank you, Sam,” said Robert, and, to Sam’s surprise, his brother’s voice was so affable that it was almost tender. “Now, if you’ll just tell me what it’s all about, I won’t keep you any longer. What did you boys do it for? What were you up to?”

  Sam looked embarrassed, and laughed. “Well — we kind of thought we could train John Carmichael and Duke to be bloodhounds; but I guess we got to give it up. They’re awful stubborn about not learning what we want ’em to.”

  “I see,” Robert said. “But what I want to know, Sam, is why you were following Margaret and Mr. Dade.”

  Sam stepped closer and spoke in a low tone. “Well, Penrod’s a detective, now,” he said confidentially.

  “You mean you boys play he’s one.”

  “No,” Sam insisted earnestly. “He is! He’s a real one. Honest he is, Bob! He’s got a badge and everything. He’s Number Hunderd and Three. It’s the honest truth, and I wouldn’t believe him, myself, if he hadn’t showed me the badge. He had to pay a whole lot of money for it, honest! He’s got a right to shadow anybody he wants to, and he’s got a right to tell anybody else to go and shadow ’em, and they got a right to do it. It’s the law.”

  “All right,” said Robert. “But what were you doing this afternoon?”

  “We were just out shadowin’. We go out shadowin’ that ole Dade all the time. Some days we don’t all keep after him, because Herman and Verman got to do a lot o’ work around their house; but most o’ the time they come along, and they keep right up close to him because Verman’s tongue-tied.”

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.”

  “Well, listen, Bob,” said Sam, obviously believing his explanation ample. “Listen! Verman can understand everything he says; but this ole Dade can’t understand a word. Ole Dade tried to kick him four or five times lately; but I don’t believe there’s anybody in the world can kick Verman. He knows how to get out o’ the way when anybody kicks at him better’n any boy I ever knew in my life.”

  “How does it happen you all like to go out shadowing Mr. Dade, Sam? How’d you decide on him?”

  “Why, I told you,” said^ Sam. “Penrod’s a detective. He found it all out.”

  “Found what out?”

  “About ole Dade bein’ a crook.”

  “What are you talking about, Sam?”

  “Why, he is a crook!” Sam exclaimed. “Isn’t he, Bob? Don’t you think so?”

  “Well—” Robert hesitated. “I understood that he was going to organize a new insurance company with Mr. Paoli Jones and his brother Montgomery. I didn’t know that was criminal, precisely. What does Penrod say he found out?”

  “Penrod says first he found out ole Dade steals horses.”

  “No! Did he?”

  “Don’t you believe it?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Robert musingly. “Penrod is a very intelligent boy, it seems to me. I hope he hasn’t made a mistake about this.”

  “Well, that isn’t the worst,” Sam continued, becoming eager under the encouragement of his brother’s benevolent manner. “He does lots worse’n that!”

  “What, Sam?”

  “Well, you just said yourself he was doin’ sumpthing to Marjorie Jones’s father and her uncle.”

  “Well—”

  “Well, Penrod found out this ole Dade is goin’ to get Marjorie Jones’s uncle drunk, and then he’s goin’ to kill him or sumpthing, and make Marjorie Jones’s father sign some ole papers, and take his house an’ lot away from him or sumpthing, and get married to Margaret. Penrod says we got to shadow him every minute, because ole Dade’s liable to take and do it any day. He’s over there now, and that’s what I got to go for. We got to keep shadowin’ him until we haf to go to bed.”

  “Run along,” said Robert. “I’ll ask mother to let you stay out an extra half-hour before she calls you. But here—” He fumbled in his pocket. “Here’s another quarter.

  It’s not for you; it’s for Penrod. Tell him it’s a secret, though; he mustn’t mention that I sent it to him. Penrod’s a nice boy, Sam. I’m glad you’re such a friend of his.”

  And as Sam dropped to the other side of the fence, Mr. Robert Williams decided that he liked boys. Wholesome, fine, sensible creatures, he thought them; and, with his hands in his empty pockets, he strolled round the block under the starlight, whistling. But his whistling stopped momentarily as he passed along the Schofields’ fence and his ear caught strange, animal-like sounds — not very like. An owl was evidently meant to hoot, and there was a protracted chorus of barking that never would have interested Penrod Schofield’s little old dog, Duke.

  Robert went on, his renewed whistling loud and cheery.

  CHAPTER XV

  THE PURSUIT CONTINUES

  THE NEXT MORNING Robert received a letter, written and posted late the previous evening. The girlish handwriting, pretty and appealing, showed signs of jerkiness here and there, seeming to reveal that the writer had been subject to agitation as she wrote. Robert paid a more flattering attention to this phenomenon than to the direct and intentional substance of the missive.

  ROBERT:

  I really was so amused at your pretending to read a book and not even speaking to old friends as they pass your house. I should think if college had done you much good, you would still be polite enough to at least bow to old friends. I suppose you are still cross over what I said that evening. I don’t care, because it was just for your own good and didn’t have anything to do with what you were nonsensical enough to accuse me of, anyhow. I should really like to know what on earth is the matter with you. Just because a girl shows a passing interest in somebody else she may hardly know at all except in the most superficial way, and might even find tiresome or ridiculous if she saw too much of such a person, I think nothing could be sillier than her old friends behaving with actual rudeness to her for such an absurd reason. I have always been taught that good manners were just as necessary between old friends as they were anywhere — but, of course, I may be wrong.

  Sincerely, MARGARET PASSLOE SCHOFIELD.

  That afternoon, being again in funds, Robert gave Sam a dollar. Sam’s amazement fully equalled his gratitude.

  “Well, I cert’nly am much obliged!” he gasped.

  “I want you to give half of it to Penrod,” Robert said affably. “He’s a boy the more I think about him the more I like to think about him. Ah—” He paused. “There’s something more I’d like to ask you about what happened yesterday afternoon, Sam.”

  “You mean about our havin’ to give up training the bloodhounds?”

  “No,” Robert said. “No, I wasn’t thinking of that — not particularly, Sam. Of course it does seem too bad that you’ve had to give the bloodhounds up, because they certainly did add to the effect, as it were! But what I wanted to ask was whether or not quite a number of people happened to notice the proceedings yesterday afternoon. You told me that some people did notice, and I think you mentioned that they laughed. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Sam informed him casually. “I expeck mostly they were laughin’ at Verman as we were goin’ along. Sometimes people out on their porches kind of laughed, and a few times people clear on the other side of the street laughed and sort of pointed.”

  “I see. Did you happen to notice Marga
ret Schofield, Sam? Ah — did she seem to mind it at all?”

  “Well, I kind of expeck so. She was red all the time and walked pretty fast. When ole Dade got so excited and went to chasin’ Verman and try in’ to kick him and everything, she was awful red, because that was out at the park where the most people were, and a lot of ’em were laughin’ pretty loud, and some of ’em kind of yelled when Verman would dodge. Yes, I guess she was pretty mad, because she stayed red and walked home terrible fast. I expeck it was a good thing for Penrod she never saw him and didn’t know he had anything to do with it.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Robert assented. “Rut Penrod’s a fine outstanding boy, Sam, and you mustn’t forget to give him half of that dollar.”

  “No, I won’t; I’ll give it to him right away.”

  “I suppose you’re going on with your game — not ‘game’, I mean to say—”

  “You mean about ole Dade?”

  “Yes,” said Robert, “that dangerous business you were speaking of last night. Are you boys going on with it today?”

  “Why, ‘course!”

  “Don’t let me keep you, then,” said Robert politely. “Not for a minute!”

  Nevertheless, he called Sam back, after the latter had started, and gave him a dime for Herman and one for Verman.

  When Sam, bringing these financial encouragements, reached the agency in Penrod’s stable, George B. Jashber and Bill and Jim, that is to say, Nos. 103, 104 and 105 (or George B. and his men) felt that they were making real progress. Elated, they went at once to the corner drug store, where each had an afternoon pick-me-up of soda-water thickened by ice-cream and sweet flavouring sirup. Then, carrying with them salted peanuts, salted almonds, cinnamon drops, sticks of licorice, a bag of targe, soggy balls of cocoanut-sugar and flour, and a terrible thing almost a foot long, purchased at the grocery and known to them as a “b’loney sausage”, they returned to the stable and performed the rite of the Daily Report. The notes taken by George B. on this occasion were sketchier than usual, since the utterance of Bill and Tabber, impeded by mastication, was not much more intelligible than that of Jim. However, since these notes covered the shadowing of the previous day, in which all members of the organization had taken part, their fragmentary nature was probably of no great detrimental importance.