Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “Yes — Mr. Williams.”

  “Mr. Williams, this is Margaret Schofield. Is Penrod there?”

  “No. He hasn’t been here.”

  “He hasn’t? Not at all?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “He wasn’t there for dinner? We haven’t been able to find him and we supposed that he was probably playing with Sam in the afternoon and stayed to dinner. I’m sorry to trouble you, but would you mind asking Sam if he knows where Penrod is?”

  “Just a moment.” Robert left the instrument and returned almost immediately to say, “Sam doesn’t know. He says he hasn’t seen Penrod since just after lunch. He says that Penrod went into the house to ask if he could go somewhere with little Marjorie Jones, and he doesn’t know anything more about him.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Williams. Will you hold the wire just a moment longer, please!” Evidently Margaret engaged in a short conversation with other people near her; Robert heard several voices speaking simultaneously — a little urgently, too, though he could not distinguish what they said. Then she addressed him again: “Mr. Williams?”

  “Yes; still here.”

  “If Sam isn’t busy, do you suppose it would be too much trouble to ask him to come over here for a little while?”

  “Not at all. I’ll bring him, myself.”

  “Oh, no, you mustn’t take all that trouble, Mr. Williams; but if Sam wouldn’t mind coming—”

  “Not at all. I’ll bring him,” Robert insisted, and, having clicked this interview to a close before Margaret could further protest, he returned to the library. “Hop up, Sam; they want you at Mr. Schofield’s, and I’ll go over there with you.”

  “Where?” Sam inquired sluggishly, not looking up from “Pilgrim’s Progress”.

  “At Mr. Schofield’s, I said. Come along!”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know. Probably because they can’t find Penrod and think maybe you could help. Hop!”

  Sam showed a strong disinclination to hop; he sank himself a little deeper in the luxurious armchair he occupied and increased his devout concentration upon “Pilgrim’s Progress”, his lips moving as he read.

  “Sam!” Mrs. Williams said a little sharply. “You can read some more when you get back; we’ll be delighted to let you sit up a little later than usual this evening, since you’re so interested in a fine book; but if Mr and Mrs. Schofield want you to help find Penrod it isn’t polite to keep them waiting. Go along with Robert immediately.”

  Upon this, Sam saw that there was no help for it; he must go. He mumbled objections as long as he could, made delays, moved with outrageous deliberation — he consumed actual minutes in restoring “Pilgrim’s Progress” to its exactly proper place in the book-case — and finally went so far as to suggest that he ought to wash his face and hands before leaving; but, as he had previously made himself noticeably immaculate, this unprecedented idea aroused serious parental impatience.

  “You go with Robert this instant!” his father said.

  Sam went; but as he and Robert approached their destination, his reluctance became so extreme that the older brother thought it the part of wisdom to walk with his hand affectionately upon the younger’s shoulder. Margaret, looking serious and with a colour already slightly heightened by recent episodes within the house, came to the door to admit them, and the sight of Robert obviously increased her embarrassment.

  “Oh,” she said blankly. “I thought it was Mr. Williams who—”

  “It is,” Robert returned with gravity. “I am Mr. Williams.”

  With that, and no more words upon the matter, he and his diffident charge followed her into the living-room, where sat in conclave apparently serious, Mr and Mrs. Schofield, Mr. Paoli Jones and Marjorie. Beautiful little Marjorie occupied a sofa all to herself; she sat solemnly in the exact middle of it, and her lovely large eyes remained unmoved by the one side-glance she received from Sam as he came into the room.

  CHAPTER XIX

  INQUISITION

  THE SERIOUSNESS OF the conclave was not perceptibly relaxed upon the entrance of the newcomers, although they were greeted hospitably and the warmness of the weather was mentioned, as they seated themselves in proffered chairs.

  “We thought Sam might be able to help us out in one or two little matters,” Mr. Schofield then explained. “But first we’d like to hear something more from him about where he thinks Penrod is. Little Marjorie, here, says she’s almost sure that Sam knows.”

  Again Marjorie remained unmoved by the inscrutable side-glance of Master Williams, which remained upon her for a moment. “I bet he does,” the lovely and terrible little girl said, with the utmost coolness. “I bet he knows where Penrod is this very minute and everything about the whole biznuss, besides. You ast him if he doesn’t.”

  “Sam,” Mr. Schofield said, “perhaps you didn’t take time to think when you sent the message over the telephone that you didn’t know where Penrod is. Now that you’ve had more time, don’t you believe you could tell us, if you tried to?” Sam swallowed painfully and fixed his gaze upon the toe of his right shoe, which moved slowly in a pattern it seemed to be tracing upon the floor. “Sir?” he said inquiringly.

  Mr. Schofield looked somewhat annoyed, but repeated his question, adding, “I have an idea that Marjorie’s right about it and that if you tried hard you could tell us where he is.”

  Sam’s expression had become vacuous. “You mean where Penrod is, Mr. Schofield?”

  “Oh, dear me!” Mr. Schofield said. “Oh, dear me!”

  Upon this, Marjorie volunteered a suggestion. “I bet he does know. I bet I know, myself. I bet he’s out in that ole sawdust box he goes to.”

  But Mr. Schofield shook his head. “No. Della said he wasn’t there. She climbed up and looked inside and said there wasn’t anything there except sawdust. Yet we’re positive that he must be somewhere in the neighbourhood; we’re not at all uneasy about him, because he’s sometimes absented himself like this before, when he’s been in — ah — in difficulties, so to speak. He’ll turn up after a while, of course; but the point is, we’d like to see him right now. You’re sure you don’t know anything about him, Sam?”

  Here Robert felt that a slight intervention in Sam’s behalf might serve to advance matters. “I doubt if Sam’s in a position to know much about Penrod’s present whereabouts, Mr. Schofield. Sam’s been unusually busy at home all afternoon, as I can testify, myself. Perhaps, though,” Robert added cheerfully, “there’s something else you’d like him to enlighten you about?”

  It was Mr. Jones, however, who took up this suggestion.

  “Yes,” he said. “There is, indeed! As Marjorie has mentioned, Sam probably knows all about it, and in Penrod’s absence it might be well for us to obtain the information from him. But as I imagine you’re quite in the dark, yourself, Robert, as to what we’re talking about, perhaps I’d better explain a little first, so that you’ll understand. It concerns a gentleman who came to town before you returned home from college, I think. Perhaps you happened to meet him — a Mr. Herbert Hamilton Dade?”

  “Dade?” Robert said inquiringly, and seemed to consider. “Dade. Ah — I think that I may have met him. At least I remember seeing him.”

  “Then you probably noticed that he was a very nice-looking young man,” Mr. Jones said. “In fact, I’d call him quite a fine-looking young man. He came here with the idea that he would possibly settle down and go into business in our city, Robert, and he brought letters of introduction to me and to my brother, Montgomery. Perhaps you don’t remember dear old Dr. Behring — he was the pastor of our church for many years but left here to accept a call from a church in Gosport, Illinois, about a decade ago — well, among the letters Mr. Dade brought was one from Dr. Behring. It was a most laudatory letter; Mr. Dade had been the Superintendent of Dr. Behring’s Sunday-school for two years before leaving Gosport, and Dr. Behring testified in warm words to the young man’s exemplary character. I must say that in eve
ry way Mr. Dade seemed to me to live up to the reputation Dr. Behring gave him. It’s seldom, indeed, that one sees a young man of such good looks who so thoroughly appears to merit the extreme praise of a man like Dr. Behring, don’t you think so, Mrs. Schofield?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she replied, with a glance at her husband, who looked a little embarrassed. “Go on, Mr. Jones, please, so that Robert will understand.”

  Mr. Jones obeyed. “I just wanted to be a little emphatic about the testimonial letter and the manner in which Mr. Dade seemed to me to live up to it. He took up his residence at the Y. M. C. A.; he joined our Sunday-school as a teacher, and everywhere, so far as I can learn, made the most excellent impression. As to his business, he had plans for forming a new insurance company and wished to interest my brother, Montgomery, and me in the project. In fact, we were interested and had begun to take the matter up with Mr. Dade quite seriously. Lately, however, both my brother and I noticed that the young man seemed to have grown curiously jumpy and nervous; it was obvious to us that he was becoming upset over something, and he appeared to be losing interest in the insurance business. Once or twice he spoke of possibly moving on to some other city with his project, and only a few days ago he surprised me in the middle of a quiet talk by jumping up and going to my office window in quite an excited way, and then breaking out at me, as if I’d annoyed him, and saying, ‘My goodness! I can organize an insurance company in any other town just as well as I can here!’ Of course I began to think then that he might decide to leave town; but I must say I didn’t anticipate anything quite so abrupt as this.” Mr. Jones paused to draw from an inner pocket a letter. “I’ll read it to you, Robert, although the others have already heard it. It is simply Mr. Dade’s farewell upon leaving town.”

  “Upon leaving town?” Robert repeated, and, with an effort almost visible, kept his gaze fixed upon Mr. Jones. “You — you mean Mr. Dade has left town — ah — permanently!”

  “Permanently,” Mr. Jones replied. “He writes as follows: ‘I am returning to Gosport upon an early morning train and have concluded to remain there at home, where there will probably be little difficulty in forming the company in which I have endeavoured to interest you and your brother, though of course the field is somewhat smaller. I take this step advisedly, having considered it for some time past. The climate of your city does not agree very well with my constitution, and although I have been most warmly welcomed here in many cordial circles, I believe the social advantages are nevertheless in favour of Gosport, and of course in selecting a permanent residence, such a consideration must be given due weight. Also, my health must naturally receive the first consideration, and in view of this city’s unfavourable climatic situation I do not feel that I should defer my departure any longer. Thanking you for many courtesies and your appreciative consideration of the Reverend Doctor Behring’s opinion of my character, I remain’, etcetera, etcetera.” Mr. Jones looked up from the reading. “A very remarkable letter,” he observed gravely.

  “Is it?” Robert asked, in a deferential tone. “I don’t seem to see why — not exactly. He explains that the climate — and — the social conditions—”

  “I mean it’s remarkable under the circumstances, Robert,” Mr. Jones explained. “That’s what I’ve been coming to. At lunch to-day I was speaking regretfully to my wife of Mr. Dade’s departure and happened to say what a nice young man he appeared to be, when we noticed that Marjorie was making unpleasant faces, and then, when we reproved her, she told us the most extraordinary story. She said Mr. Dade wasn’t nice; he was a bad man — a terribly bad man. When we questioned her she said that Penrod had told her Mr. Dade stole horses. Of course we laughed; but she insisted that Penrod had heard both his mother and father declaring that Mr. Dade stole horses. Well, we’ve just been talking about that, and Mr. Schofield can’t recall any such conversation; but Mrs. Schofield dimly remembers that she and Mr. Schofield made some jocular allusions once upon a time to horse-thieves having good manners in connection with the notably polished manners of Mr. Herbert Hamilton Dade, and she thinks Penrod may possibly have overheard them and taken the allusions literally. But this isn’t the gist of the matter; it doesn’t explain the rest of it. Penrod told Marjorie he had absolute information that Mr. Dade swindled people by getting them to sign papers; he told her Mr. Dade intended to get my brother, Montgomery, and me to ‘sign papers’ which would ruin us. Now, for one thing, in view of the fact that my brother and I would actually have signed quite a number of papers, if we’d concluded to join Mr. Dade in his insurance project, we couldn’t help wondering if Penrod had somewhere heard some absurd rumour that ought to be stopped before it went any further.”

  “I should think that unlikely,” Robert said judicially. “At least I haven’t, myself, happened to hear of any grownup rumour or libel attaching to Mr. Dade’s undeniably excellent character. I should think it unlikely, sir.”

  “Yes, possibly,” Mr. Jones returned. “But there’s something else that has considerably mystified us, and it would be a satisfaction to get at the roots of the whole affair. Here’s a sample of what’g been happening: one day last week, Montgomery and Mr. Dade were walking along the street together, and Mr. Dade gave a perceptible start and uttered exclamations under his breath. It was broad daylight; the streets were full of people, and my brother naturally asked what was the matter. Mr. Dade was plainly excited and took my brother by the arm. ‘Do you see that small, tongue-tied negro boy?’ he asked. My brother looked around. ‘I see a little negro boy; but I don’t know whether he’s tongue-tied or not,’ he said. ‘Well, he is,’ Mr. Dade told him, almost angrily. ‘He is tongue-tied!’ That’s all he would say about it; he insisted upon changing the subject, and Montgomery thought the incident very odd, indeed.”

  “It seems so,” Robert said. “Go on, Mr. Jones.”

  “I will. You see, we seem to have a clue to a possible explanation, and that’s what we want to get at. Marjorie says Penrod told her he was ‘after’ the wicked Mr. Dade and was ‘shadowing’ him. She tells us that he often plays with two small coloured boys and that one of them is tongue-tied, so you see the suggestion, don’t you, that appears to indicate a possible explanation of that bit of nervousness on the part of the young man — perhaps an explanation of more of his nervousness, besides? You see, Robert?”

  “Well — in a way,” Robert replied slowly. “Yes — in a way.”

  “It’s all quite a mysterious business,” Mr. Jones said. “It seems to me we ought to account for it if we can, and, since Penrod is temporarily missing, I thought that Sam, being his most intimate friend and usually mixed up in every’ thing with him, might shed some light.”

  “I should think that might be entirely possible,” Robert agreed. “What about it, Sam?”

  Sam was still engaged in making patterns upon the floor with the toe of his shoe. “Me?” he said vaguely. “What about?”

  “‘What about’?” Robert returned, with some sharpness. “Why about what Mr. Jones has been talking about!”

  “Oh!” Sam said, with the air of a polite person somewhat bored by information in which he has no personal concern. The little company waited; but he said nothing further.

  “Now, Sam—” Robert began; but Mrs. Schofield in tervened.

  “Let me try,” she said pleasantly. “Sam, I’m sure you won’t mind answering some questions from me, will you?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, then, you heard everything that Mr. Jones ha-been telling us, and we want you to say just what you know about it. You’ll surely do that for me, won’t you, Sam?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, then, what do you know about it, Sam?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Here, let me!” Mr. Schofield interposed impatiently. “Sam, you heard what Mr. Jones said about a little tongue-tied coloured boy, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good! Now we intend to get at this whole business;
but first we want you to tell us what you know about that little tongue-tied coloured boy’s making Mr. Dade nervous by following him. Speak up!”

  Sam decided that it would be better for him not to say “Sir?” A slight frown appeared upon his brow, as though he engaged himself in thought; then he inquired: “Which little tongue-tied coloured boy do you mean, sir?”

  “Good heavens! I mean the one that—” Mr. Schofield began, but paused to pass a handkerchief over his exasperated brow; then he turned to Robert. “Here! He’s your brother. Can’t you get anything out of him?”

  “I think so,” Robert said, and, in a sharply business-like tone, took up the investigation. “See here, Sam! This shillyshallying is only making matters worse and can’t do you a particle of good. Everybody here understands that the little tongue-tied coloured boy didn’t do whatever he did to poor Mr. Dade of his own volition. That is to say, he didn’t invent it, himself. Little Marjorie says that you and Penrod and those two coloured boys from the alley — and we all know that one of them is tongue-tied — she says you were all engaged in an inexcusable performance that became very bothersome to this poor Mr. Dade. Now we all know that, Sam, and, as I said, it isn’t doing you any good to evade our questions. You know perfectly well that you and Penrod and the two coloured boys from the alley were pretending that you were detectives and ‘shadowing’ poor Mr. Dade. There isn’t a bit of good in your not admitting it.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Sam returned plaintively. “I didn’t have a thing to do with getting it up. I was away at Uncle Henry’s farm when a good deal of it happened. I couldn’t help what happened while I wasn’t even in this ole town, could I?”

  “Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere!” Robert said, stating a fact that he was shortly to regret; then he increased the severity of his tone. “You admit, Sam, that you four boys were pretending that poor Mr. Dade was a criminal, and that you were—”