CHAPTER III. THE MILITARIST
PENROD SCHOFIELD, having been "kept-in" for the unjust period of twentyminutes after school, emerged to a deserted street. That is, the streetwas deserted so far as Penrod was concerned. Here and there people wereto be seen upon the sidewalks, but they were adults, and they and theshade trees had about the same quality of significance in Penrod'sconsciousness. Usually he saw grown people in the mass, which is to say,they were virtually invisible to him, though exceptions must be taken infavour of policemen, firemen, street-car conductors, motormen, and allother men in any sort of uniform or regalia. But this afternoon noneof these met the roving eye, and Penrod set out upon his homeward waywholly dependent upon his own resources.
To one of Penrod's inner texture, a mere unadorned walk from onepoint to another was intolerable, and he had not gone a block withoutachieving some slight remedy for the tameness of life. An electric-lightpole at the corner, invested with powers of observation, might have beensurprised to find itself suddenly enacting a role of dubious honour inimprovised melodrama. Penrod, approaching, gave the pole a look of sharpsuspicion, then one of conviction; slapped it lightly and contemptuouslywith his open hand; passed on a few paces, but turned abruptly, and,pointing his right forefinger, uttered the symbolic word, "Bing!"
The plot was somewhat indefinite; yet nothing is more certain than thatthe electric-light pole had first attempted something against him,then growing bitter when slapped, and stealing after him to take himtreacherously in the back, had got itself shot through and through byone too old in such warfare to be caught off his guard.
Leaving the body to lie where it was, he placed the smoking pistol ina holster at his saddlebow--he had decided that he was mounted--andproceeded up the street. At intervals he indulged himself in otherencounters, reining in at first suspicion of ambush with a muttered,"Whoa, Charlie!" or "Whoa, Mike!" or even "Whoa, Washington!" forpreoccupation with the enemy outweighed attention to the details oftheatrical consistency, though the steed's varying names were at leastharmoniously masculine, since a boy, in these, creative moments, neverrides a mare. And having brought Charlie or Mike or Washington toa standstill, Penrod would draw the sure weapon from its holsterand--"Bing! Bing! Bing!"--let them have it.
It is not to be understood that this was a noisy performance, or even anobvious one. It attracted no attention from any pedestrian, and itwas to be perceived only that a boy was proceeding up the street at asomewhat irregular gait. Three or four years earlier, when Penrod wasseven or eight, he would have shouted "Bing!" at the top of his voice;he would have galloped openly; all the world might have seen that hebestrode a charger. But a change had come upon him with advancing years.Although the grown people in sight were indeed to him as walking trees,his dramas were accomplished principally by suggestion and symbol.His "Whoas" and "Bings" were delivered in a husky whisper, and hisequestrianism was established by action mostly of the mind, theaccompanying artistry of the feet being unintelligible to the passerby.
And yet, though he concealed from observation the stirring little sceneshe thus enacted, a love of realism was increasing within him. Earlychildhood is not fastidious about the accessories of its drama--a caneis vividly a gun which may instantly, as vividly, become a horse; but atPenrod's time of life the lath sword is no longer satisfactory. Indeed,he now had a vague sense that weapons of wood were unworthy to the pointof being contemptible and ridiculous, and he employed them only whenhe was alone and unseen. For months a yearning had grown more and morepoignant in his vitals, and this yearning was symbolized by one of hismost profound secrets. In the inner pocket of his jacket, he carried abit of wood whittled into the distant likeness of a pistol, but not evenSam Williams had seen it. The wooden pistol never knew the light of day,save when Penrod was in solitude; and yet it never left his sideexcept at night, when it was placed under his pillow. Still, it did notsatisfy; it was but the token of his yearning and his dream. With allhis might and main Penrod longed for one thing beyond all others. Hewanted a Real Pistol!
That was natural. Pictures of real pistols being used to magnificentlyromantic effect were upon almost all the billboards in town, the yearround, and as for the "movie" shows, they could not have lived an hourunpistoled. In the drug store, where Penrod bought his candy and sodawhen he was in funds, he would linger to turn the pages of periodicalswhose illustrations were fascinatingly pistolic. Some of the magazinesupon the very library table at home were sprinkled with pictures ofpeople (usually in evening clothes) pointing pistols at other people.Nay, the Library Board of the town had emitted a "Selected List ofFifteen Books for Boys," and Penrod had read fourteen of them withpleasure, but as the fifteenth contained no weapons in the earlierchapters and held forth little prospect of any shooting at all, heabandoned it halfway, and read the most sanguinary of the other fourteenover again. So, the daily food of his imagination being gun, what wonderthat he thirsted for the Real!
He passed from the sidewalk into his own yard, with a subdued "Bing!"inflicted upon the stolid person of a gatepost, and, entering the housethrough the kitchen, ceased to bing for a time. However, driven backfrom the fore part of the house by a dismal sound of callers, hereturned to the kitchen and sat down.
"Della," he said to the cook, "do you know what I'd do if you was acrook and I had my ottomatic with me?"
Della was industrious and preoccupied. "If I was a cook!" she repeatedignorantly, and with no cordiality. "Well, I AM a cook. I'm a-cookin'right now. Either g'wan in the house where y'b'long, or git out in th'yard!"
Penrod chose the latter, and betook himself slowly to the back fence,where he was greeted in a boisterous manner by his wistful little olddog, Duke, returning from some affair of his own in the alley.
"Get down!" said Penrod coldly, and bestowed a spiritless "Bing!" uponhim.
At this moment a shout was heard from the alley, "Yay, Penrod!" and thesandy head of comrade Sam Williams appeared above the fence.
"Come on over," said Penrod.
As Sam obediently climbed the fence, the little old dog, Duke, movedslowly away, but presently, glancing back over his shoulder and seeingthe two boys standing together, he broke into a trot and disappearedround a corner of the house. He was a dog of long and enlighteningexperience; and he made it clear that the conjunction of Penrod and Samportended events which, from his point of view, might be unfortunate.Duke had a forgiving disposition, but he also possessed a melancholywisdom. In the company of either Penrod or Sam, alone, affection oftencaused him to linger, albeit with a little pessimism, but when he sawthem together, he invariably withdrew in as unobtrusive a manner ashaste would allow.
"What you doin'?" Sam asked.
"Nothin'. What you?"
"I'll show you if you'll come over to our house," said Sam, who waswearing an important and secretive expression.
"What for?" Penrod showed little interest.
"Well, I said I'd show you if you came on over, didn't I?"
"But you haven't got anything I haven't got," said Penrod indifferently."I know everything that's in your yard and in your stable, and thereisn't a thing--"
"I didn't say it was in the yard or in the stable, did I?"
"Well, there ain't anything in your house," returned Penrod frankly,"that I'd walk two feet to look at--not a thing!"
"Oh, no!" Sam assumed mockery. "Oh, no, you wouldn't! You know what itis, don't you? Yes, you do!" Penrod's curiosity stirred somewhat. "Well,all right," he said, "I got nothin' to do. I just as soon go. What isit?"
"You wait and see," said Sam, as they climbed the fence. "I bet YOUR oleeyes'll open pretty far in about a minute or so!"
"I bet they don't. It takes a good deal to get me excited, unless it'ssumpthing mighty--"
"You'll see!" Sam promised.
He opened an alley, gate and stepped into his own yard in a mannersignalling caution--though the exploit, thus far, certainly requirednone and Penrod began to be impressed and hopeful. They entered thehouse, silently, encou
ntering no one, and Sam led the way upstairs,tiptoeing, implying unusual and increasing peril. Turning, in the upperhall, they went into Sam's father's bedroom, and Sam closed the doorwith a caution so genuine that already Penrod's eyes began to fulfil hishost's prediction. Adventures in another boy's house are trying to thenerves; and another boy's father's bedroom, when invaded, has a violatedsanctity that is almost appalling. Penrod felt that something was aboutto happen--something much more important than he had anticipated.
Sam tiptoed across the room to a chest of drawers, and, kneeling,carefully pulled out the lowest drawer until the surface of itscontents--Mr. Williams' winter underwear--lay exposed. Then he fumbledbeneath the garments and drew forth a large object, displaying ittriumphantly to the satisfactorily dumfounded Penrod.
It was a blue-steel Colt's revolver, of the heaviest pattern made in theSeventies. Mr. Williams had inherited it from Sam's grandfather (a smallman, a deacon, and dyspeptic) and it was larger and more horrible thanany revolver either of the boys had ever seen in any picture, moving orstationary. Moreover, greenish bullets of great size were to be seenin the chambers of the cylinder, suggesting massacre rather than meremurder. This revolver was Real and it was Loaded!
Penrod and Sam Page 3
