CHAPTER IX. REWARD OF MERIT
"Penrod," said his mother, "what did you do with that loaf of breadDella says you took from the table?"
"Ma'am? WHAT loaf o' bread?"
"I believe I can't let you go outdoors this afternoon," Mrs. Schofieldsaid severely. "If you were hungry, you know perfectly well all you hadto do was to--"
"But I wasn't hungry; I--"
"You can explain later," Mrs. Schofield said. "You'll have allafternoon."
Penrod's heart grew cold.
"I CAN'T stay in," he protested. "I've asked Sam Williams to come over."
"I'll telephone Mrs. Williams."
"Mamma!" Penrod's voice became agonized. "I HAD to give that bread toa--to a poor ole man. He was starving and so were his children and hiswife. They were all just STARVING--and they couldn't wait while I tooktime to come and ask you, Mamma. I got to GO outdoors this afternoon. IGOT to! Sam's--"
She relented.
In the carriage-house, half an hour later, Penrod gave an account of theepisode.
"Where'd we been, I'd just like to know," he concluded, "if I hadn't gotout here this afternoon?"
"Well, I guess I could managed him all right," Sam said. "I was in thepassageway, a minute ago, takin' a look at him. He's standin' up again.I expect he wants more to eat."
"Well, we got to fix about that," said Penrod. "But what I mean--if I'dhad to stay in the house, where would we been about the most importantthing in the whole biz'nuss?"
"What you talkin' about?"
"Well, why can't you wait till I tell you?" Penrod's tone had becomepeevish. For that matter, so had Sam's; they were developing one of thelittle differences, or quarrels, that composed the very texture of theirfriendship.
"Well, why don't you tell me, then?"
"Well, how can I?" Penrod demanded. "You keep talkin' every minute."
"I'm not talkin' NOW, am I?" Sam protested. "You can tell me NOW, can'tyou? I'm not talk--"
"You are, too!" Penrod shouted. "You talk all the time! You--"
He was interrupted by Whitey's peculiar cough. Both boys jumped andforgot their argument.
"He means he wants some more to eat, I bet," said Sam.
"Well, if he does, he's got to wait," Penrod declared. "We got to getthe most important thing of all fixed up first."
"What's that, Penrod?"
"The reward," said Penrod mildly. "That's what I was tryin' to tell youabout, Sam, if you'd ever give me half a chance."
"Well, I DID give you a chance. I kept TELLIN' you to tell me, but--"
"You never! You kept sayin'--"
They renewed this discussion, protracting it indefinitely; but aseach persisted in clinging to his own interpretation of the facts, thequestion still remains unsettled. It was abandoned, or rather, it mergedinto another during the later stages of the debate, this other beingconcerned with which of the debaters had the least "sense." Each madethe plain statement that if he were more deficient than his opponent inthat regard, self-destruction would be his only refuge. Each declaredthat he would "rather die than be talked to death"; and then, as thetwo approached a point bluntly recriminative, Whitey coughed again,whereupon they were miraculously silent, and went into the passageway ina perfectly amiable manner.
"I got to have a good look at him, for once," Penrod said, as he staredfrowningly at Whitey. "We got to fix up about that reward."
"I want to take a good ole look at him myself," Sam said.
After supplying Whitey with another bucket of water, they returned tothe carriage-house and seated themselves thoughtfully. In truth, theywere something a shade more than thoughtful; the adventure to which theyhad committed themselves was beginning to be a little overpowering. IfWhitey had been a dog, a goat, a fowl, or even a stray calf, they wouldhave felt equal to him; but now that the earlier glow of their wilddaring had disappeared, vague apprehensions stirred. Their "good look"at Whitey had not reassured them--he seemed large, Gothic and unusual.
Whisperings within them began to urge that for boys to undertake anenterprise connected with so huge an animal as an actual horse wasperilous. Beneath the surface of their musings, dim but ominousprophecies moved; both boys began to have the feeling that, somehow,this affair was going to get beyond them and that they would be in heavytrouble before it was over--they knew not why. They knew why no morethan they knew why they felt it imperative to keep the fact of Whitey'spresence in the stable a secret from their respective families; but theydid begin to realize that keeping a secret of that size was going to beattended with some difficulty. In brief, their sensations were becomingcomparable to those of the man who stole a house.
Nevertheless, after a short period given to unspoken misgivings, theyreturned to the subject of the reward. The money-value of bay horses, ascompared to white, was again discussed, and each announced his certaintythat nothing less than "a good ole hunderd dollars" would be offered forthe return of Whitey.
But immediately after so speaking they fell into another silence, due tosinking feelings. They had spoken loudly and confidently, and yet theyknew, somehow, that such things were not to be. According to theirknowledge, it was perfectly reasonable to suppose that they wouldreceive this fortune; but they frightened themselves in speaking of it.They knew that they COULD not have a hundred dollars for their own. Anoppression, as from something awful and criminal, descended upon them atintervals.
Presently, however, they were warmed to a little cheerfulness again byPenrod's suggestion that they should put a notice in the paper. Neitherof them had the slightest idea how to get it there; but such details asthat were beyond the horizon; they occupied themselves with the questionof what their advertisement ought to "say". Finding that they differedirreconcilably, Penrod went to his cache in the sawdust-box and broughttwo pencils and a supply of paper. He gave one of the pencils andseveral sheets to Sam; then both boys bent themselves in silence to thelabour of practical composition. Penrod produced the brieferparagraph. (See Fig. I.) Sam's was more ample. (See Fig. II.)------------------[Transcribed from handwritten illustration for ProjectGutenberg:] FIG. I. Reward. White horse in Schofields ally finders gothim in Schofields stable and will let him taken away by by (crossed out:pay) paying for good food he has aten while (crossed out: wat w) while(crossed out: wat) waiting and Reward of (crossed out: $100 $20 $15 $5)$10.
FIG II. FOND Horse on Saturday morning owner can get him by (crossedthrough word, unreadable) replying at stable bhind Mr. Schofield.You will have to proof he is your horse he is whit with hind of brown(crossed out: spec) speks and worout (crossed out: tail) tale, he isgeting good care and food, reword (crossed out: $100 $20) sevntyfivecents to each one or we will keep him lokked up.----------------
Neither Sam nor Penrod showed any interest in what the otherhad written; but both felt that something praiseworthy had beenaccomplished. Penrod exhaled a sigh, as of relief, and, in a manner hehad observed his father use sometimes, he said:
"Thank goodness, THAT'S off my mind, anyway!"
"What we goin' do next, Penrod?" Sam asked deferentially, the borrowedmanner having some effect upon him.
"I don't know what YOU'RE goin' to do," Penrod returned, picking up theold cigarbox that had contained the paper and pencils. "I'M goin' to putmine in here, so's it'll come in handy when I haf to get at it."
"Well, I guess I'll keep mine there, too," Sam said. Thereupon hedeposited his scribbled slip beside Penrod's in the cigarbox, and thebox was solemnly returned to the secret place whence it had been taken.
"There, THAT'S 'tended to!" Sam said, and, unconsciously imitating hisfriend's imitation, he gave forth audibly a breath of satisfaction andrelief.
Both boys felt that the financial side of their great affair had beenconscientiously looked to, that the question of the reward was settled,and that everything was proceeding in a businesslike manner. Therefore,they were able to turn their attention to another matter.
This was the question of Whitey's next meal. After their exploi
ts ofthe morning, and the consequent imperilment of Penrod, they decidedthat nothing more was to be done in apples, vegetables or bread; it wasevident that Whitey must be fed from the bosom of nature.
"We couldn't pull enough o' that frostbit ole grass in the yard to feedhim," Penrod said gloomily. "We could work a week and not get enough tomake him swaller more'n about twice. All we got this morning, he blewmost of it away. He'd try to scoop it in toward his teeth with his lip,and then he'd haf to kind of blow out his breath, and after that all thegrass that'd be left was just some wet pieces stickin' to the outsidesof his face. Well, and you know how he acted about that maple branch. Wecan't trust him with branches."
Sam jumped up.
"_I_ know!" he cried. "There's lots of leaves left on the branches. Wecan give them to him."
"I just said--"
"I don't mean the branches," Sam explained. "We'll leave the branches onthe trees, but just pull the leaves off the branches and put 'em in thebucket and feed 'em to him out of the bucket."
Penrod thought this plan worth trying, and for three-quarters of an hourthe two boys were busy with the lower branches of various trees in theyard. Thus they managed to supply Whitey with a fair quantity of wetleaves, which he ate in a perfunctory way, displaying little of hisearlier enthusiasm. And the work of his purveyors might have been moretedious if it had been less damp, for a boy is seldom bored by anythingthat involves his staying-out in the rain without protection. Thedrizzle had thickened; the leaves were heavy with water, and at everyjerk the branches sent fat drops over the two collectors. They attaineda noteworthy state of sogginess.
Finally, they were brought to the attention of the authorities indoors,and Della appeared upon the back porch.
"Musther Penrod," she called, "y'r mamma says ye'll c'm in the housethis minute an' change y'r shoes an' stockin's an' everythun' else yegot on! D'ye hear me?"
Penrod, taken by surprise and unpleasantly alarmed, darted away from thetree he was depleting and ran for the stable.
"You tell her I'm dry as toast!" he shouted over his shoulder.
Della withdrew, wearing the air of a person gratuitously insulted; anda moment later she issued from the kitchen, carrying an umbrella. Sheopened it and walked resolutely to the stable.
"She says I'm to bring ye in the house," said Della, "an' I'm goin' tobring ye!"
Sam had joined Penrod in the carriage-house, and, with the beginningsof an unnamed terror, the two beheld this grim advance. But they did notstay for its culmination. Without a word to each other they hurriedlytiptoed up the stairs to the gloomy loft, and there they paused,listening.
They heard Della's steps upon the carriage-house floor.
"Ah, there's plenty places t'hide in," they heard her say; "but I'llshow ye! She tole me to bring ye, and I'm--"
She was interrupted by a peculiar sound--loud, chilling, dismal, andunmistakably not of human origin. The boys knew it for Whitey's cough;but Della had not their experience. A smothered shriek reached theirears; there was a scurrying noise, and then, with horror, they heardDella's footsteps in the passageway that ran by Whitey's manger.Immediately there came a louder shriek, and even in the anguish ofknowing their secret discovered, they were shocked to hear distinctlythe words, "O Lard in hivvin!" in the well-known voice of Della. Sheshrieked again, and they heard the rush of her footfalls across thecarriage-house floor. Wild words came from the outer air, and thekitchen door slammed violently. It was all over. She had gone to "tell".
Penrod and Sam plunged down the stairs and out of the stable. Theyclimbed the back fence and fled up the alley. They turned into Sam'syard, and, without consultation, headed for the cellar doors, nor pausedtill they found themselves in the farthest, darkest and gloomiest recessof the cellar. There, perspiring, stricken with fear, they sank downupon the earthen floor, with their moist backs against the stone wall.
Thus with boys. The vague apprehensions that had been creeping uponPenrod and Sam all afternoon had become monstrous; the unknown wasbefore them. How great their crime would turn out to be (now that it wasin the hands of grown people) they did not know; but, since it concerneda horse, it would undoubtedly be considered of terrible dimensions.
Their plans for a reward, and all the things that had seemed bothinnocent and practical in the morning, now staggered their minds asmanifestations of criminal folly. A new and terrible light seemed toplay upon the day's exploits; they had chased a horse belonging tostrangers, and it would be said that they deliberately drove him intothe stable and there concealed him. They had, in truth, virtually stolenhim, and they had stolen food for him. The waning light throughthe small window above them warned Penrod that his inroads upon thevegetables in his own cellar must soon be discovered. Della, thatNemesis, would seek them in order to prepare them for dinner, and shewould find them not. But she would recall his excursion to the cellar,for she had seen him when he came up; and also the truth would be knownconcerning the loaf of bread. Altogether, Penrod felt that his casewas worse than Sam's--until Sam offered a suggestion that roused suchhorrible possibilities concerning the principal item of their offensethat all thought of the smaller indictments disappeared.
"Listen, Penrod," Sam quavered: "What--what if that--what if that olehorse maybe b'longed to a--policeman!" Sam's imagination was not of thecomforting kind. "What'd they--do to us, Penrod, if it turned out he wassome policeman's horse?"
Penrod was able only to shake his head. He did not reply in words; butboth boys thenceforth considered it almost inevitable that Whitey hadbelonged to a policeman, and, in their sense of so ultimate a disaster,they ceased for a time to brood upon what their parents would probablydo to them. The penalty for stealing a policeman's horse would be onlya step short of capital, they were sure. They would not be hanged; butvague, looming sketches of something called the penitentiary began toflicker before them.
It grew darker in the cellar, so that finally they could not see eachother.
"I guess they're huntin' for us by now," Sam said huskily. "I don't--Idon't like it much down here, Penrod."
Penrod's hoarse whisper came from the profound gloom: "Well, who eversaid you did?"
"Well--" Sam paused; then he said plaintively, "I wish we'd never SEENthat dern ole horse."
"It was every bit his fault," said Penrod. "We didn't do anything. If hehadn't come stickin' his ole head in our stable, it'd never happenedat all. Ole fool!" He rose. "I'm goin' to get out of here; I guess I'vestood about enough for one day."
"Where--where you goin', Penrod? You aren't goin' HOME, are you?"
"No; I'm not! What you take me for? You think I'm crazy?"
"Well, where CAN we go?"
How far Penrod's desperation actually would have led him is doubtful;but he made this statement: "I don't know where YOU'RE goin', but I'Mgoin' to walk straight out in the country till I come to a farmhouse andsay my name's George and live there!"
"I'll do it, too," Sam whispered eagerly. "I'll say my name's Henry."
"Well, we better get started," said the executive Penrod. "We got to getaway from here, anyway."
But when they came to ascend the steps leading to the "outside doors",they found that those doors had been closed and locked for the night.
"It's no use," Sam lamented, "and we can't bust 'em, cause I tried to,once before. Fanny always locks 'em about five o'clock--I forgot. We gotto go up the stairway and try to sneak out through the house."
They tiptoed back, and up the inner stairs. They paused at the top, thenbreathlessly stepped out into a hall that was entirely dark. Sam touchedPenrod's sleeve in warning and bent to listen at a door.
Immediately that door opened, revealing the bright library, where satPenrod's mother and Sam's father.
It was Sam's mother who had opened the door. "Come into the library,boys," she said. "Mrs. Schofield is just telling us about it."
And as the two comrades moved dumbly into the lighted room, Penrod'smother rose, and, taking him by the shoulder, urged him clos
e to thefire.
"You stand there and try to dry off a little, while I finish telling Mr.and Mrs. Williams about you and Sam," she said. "You'd better make Samkeep near the fire, too, Mrs. Williams, because they both got wringingwet. Think of their running off just when most people would have wantedto stay! Well, I'll go on with the story, then. Della told me all aboutit, and what the cook next door said SHE'D seen, how they'd been tryingto pull grass and leaves for the poor old thing all day--and all aboutthe apples they carried from YOUR cellar, and getting wet and workingin the rain as hard as they could--and they'd given him a loaf of bread!Shame on you, Penrod!" She paused to laugh; but there was a littlemoisture about her eyes, even before she laughed. "And they'd fed himon potatoes and lettuce and cabbage and turnips out of OUR cellar! AndI wish you'd see the sawdust bed they made for him! Well, when I'dtelephoned, and the Humane Society man got there, he said it was themost touching thing he ever knew. It seems he KNEW this horse, and hadbeen looking for him. He said ninety-nine boys out of a hundred wouldhave chased the poor old thing away, and he was going to see to it thatthis case didn't go unnoticed, because the local branch of the societygives little silver medals for special acts like this. And the lastthing he said was that he was sure Penrod and Sam each would be awardedone at the meeting of the society next Thursday night."
... On the following Saturday a yodel sounded from the sunny sidewalkin front of the Schofields' house, and Penrod, issuing forth, beheld thefamiliar figure of Samuel Williams waiting.
Upon Sam's breast there glittered a round bit of silver suspended by awhite ribbon from a bar of the same metal. Upon the breast of Penrod wasa decoration precisely similar.
"'Lo, Penrod," said Sam. "What are you goin' to do?"
"Nothin'"
"I got mine on," said Sam.
"I have, too," said Penrod. "I wouldn't take a hunderd dollars formine."
"I wouldn't take two hunderd for mine," said Sam.
Each glanced pleasantly at the other's medal. They faced each otherwithout shame. Neither had the slightest sense of hypocrisy in himselfor in his comrade. On the contrary!
Penrod's eyes went from Sam's medal back to his own; thence theywandered, with perhaps a little disappointment, to the lifeless streetand to the empty yards and spectatorless windows of the neighbourhood.Then he looked southward toward the busy heart of the town, wheremultitudes were.
"Let's go down and see what time it is by the court-house-clock," saidPenrod.
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