Penrod and Sam

by Booth Tarkington

  CHAPTER XVIII. ON ACCOUNT OF THE WEATHER

  There is no boredom (not even an invalid's) comparable to that of a boywho has nothing to do. When a man says he has nothing to do, he speaksidly; there is always more than he can do. Grown women never say theyhave nothing to do, and when girls or little girls say they have nothingto do, they are merely airing an affectation. But when a boy has nothingto do, he has actually nothing at all to do; his state is pathetic, andwhen he complains of it his voice is haunting.

  Mrs. Schofield was troubled by this uncomfortable quality in the voiceof her son, who came to her thrice, in his search for entertainment oreven employment, one Saturday afternoon during the February thaw. Fewfacts are better established than that the February thaw is the pooresttime of year for everybody. But for a boy it is worse than poorest; itis bankrupt. The remnant streaks of old soot-speckled snow left againstthe north walls of houses have no power to inspire; rather, they aredreary reminders of sports long since carried to satiety. One careslittle even to eat such snow, and the eating of icicles, also, has cometo be a flaccid and stale diversion. There is no ice to bear a skate,there is only a vast sufficiency of cold mud, practically useless.Sunshine flickers shiftily, coming and going without any honest purpose;snow-squalls blow for five minutes, the flakes disappearing as theytouch the earth; half an hour later rain sputters, turns to snow andthen turns back to rain--and the sun disingenuously beams out again,only to be shut off like a rogue's lantern. And all the wretched while,if a boy sets foot out of doors, he must be harassed about his overcoatand rubbers; he is warned against tracking up the plastic lawn andsharply advised to stay inside the house. Saturday might as well beSunday.

  Thus the season. Penrod had sought all possible means to pass the time.A full half-hour of vehement yodelling in the Williams' yard had failedto bring forth comrade Sam; and at last a coloured woman had opened awindow to inform Penrod that her intellect was being unseated by hisvocalizations, which surpassed in unpleasantness, she claimed, everysound in her previous experience and, for the sake of definiteness, shestated her age to be fifty-three years and four months. She added thatall members of the Williams family had gone out of town to attend thefuneral of a relative, but she wished that they might have remainedto attend Penrod's, which she confidently predicted as imminent if theneighbourhood followed its natural impulse.

  Penrod listened for a time, but departed before the conclusion of theoration. He sought other comrades, with no success; he even went to thelength of yodelling in the yard of that best of boys, Georgie Bassett.Here was failure again, for Georgie signalled to him, through a closedwindow, that a closeting with dramatic literature was preferable to thesociety of a playmate; and the book that Georgie exhibited was openlylabelled, "300 Choice Declamations." Georgie also managed to conveyanother reason for his refusal of Penrod's companionship, the visitorbeing conversant with lip-reading through his studies at the "movies."

  "TOO MUDDY!"

  Penrod went home.

  "Well," Mrs. Schofield said, having almost exhausted a mother's powersof suggestion, "well, why don't you give Duke a bath?" She was that fardepleted when Penrod came to her the third time.

  Mothers' suggestions are wonderful for little children but sometimeslack lustre when a boy approaches twelve an age to which the ideas of aSwede farm-hand would usually prove more congenial. However, the dim andmelancholy eye of Penrod showed a pale gleam, and he departed. He gaveDuke a bath.

  The entertainment proved damp and discouraging for both parties. Dukebegan to tremble even before he was lifted into the water, and after hisfirst immersion he was revealed to be a dog weighing about one-fourthof what an observer of Duke, when Duke was dry, must have guessed hisweight to be. His wetness and the disclosure of his extreme fleshlyinsignificance appeared to mortify him profoundly. He wept. But,presently, under Penrod's thorough ministrations--for the young masterwas inclined to make this bath last as long as possible--Duke pluckedup a heart and began a series of passionate attempts to close theinterview. As this was his first bath since September, the effects werelavish and impressionistic, both upon Penrod and upon the bathroom.However, the imperious boy's loud remonstrances contributed to bringabout the result desired by Duke.

  Mrs. Schofield came running, and eloquently put an end to Duke's winterbath. When she had suggested this cleansing as a pleasant means ofpassing the time, she assumed that it would take place in a washtub inthe cellar; and Penrod's location of the performance in her own bathroomwas far from her intention.

  Penrod found her language oppressive, and, having been denied the rightto rub Duke dry with a bath-towel--or even with the cover of a table inthe next room--the dismal boy, accompanied by his dismal dog, set forth,by way of the kitchen door, into the dismal weather. With no purposein mind, they mechanically went out to the alley, where Penrod leanedmorosely against the fence, and Duke stood shivering close by, hisfigure still emaciated and his tail absolutely withdrawn from view.

  There was a cold, wet wind, however; and before long Duke found hiscondition unendurable. He was past middle age and cared little forexercise; but he saw that something must be done. Therefore, he madea vigorous attempt to dry himself in a dog's way. Throwing himself,shoulders first, upon the alley mud, he slid upon it, back downward;he rolled and rolled and rolled. He began to feel lively and rolledthe more; in every way he convinced Penrod that dogs have no regardfor appearances. Also, having discovered an ex-fish near the Herman andVerman cottage, Duke confirmed an impression of Penrod's that dogs havea peculiar fancy in the matter of odours that they like to wear.

  Growing livelier and livelier, Duke now wished to play with hismaster. Penrod was anything but fastidious; nevertheless, under thecircumstances, he withdrew to the kitchen, leaving Duke to play byhimself, outside.

  Della, the cook, was comfortably making rolls and entertaining a callerwith a cup of tea. Penrod lingered a few moments, but found even hisattention to the conversation ill received, while his attempts totake part in it met outright rebuff. His feelings were hurt; he passedbroodingly to the front part of the house, and flung himself wearilyinto an armchair in the library. With glazed eyes he stared at shelvesof books that meant to him just what the wallpaper meant, and hesighed from the abyss. His legs tossed and his arms flopped; he got up,scratched himself exhaustively, and shuffled to a window. Ten desolateminutes he stood there, gazing out sluggishly upon a soggy world. Duringthis time two wet delivery-wagons and four elderly women under umbrellaswere all that crossed his field of vision. Somewhere in the world, hethought, there was probably a boy who lived across the street froma jail or a fire-engine house, and had windows worth looking out of.Penrod rubbed his nose up and down the pane slowly, continuously, andwithout the slightest pleasure; and he again scratched himself whereverit was possible to do so, though he did not even itch. There was nothingin his life.

  Such boredom as he was suffering can become agony, and an imaginativecreature may do wild things to escape it; many a grown person has takento drink on account of less pressure than was upon Penrod during thatintolerable Saturday.

  A faint sound in his ear informed him that Della, in the kitchen, haduttered a loud exclamation, and he decided to go back there. However,since his former visit had resulted in a rebuff that still rankled, hepaused outside the kitchen door, which was slightly ajar, and listened.He did this idly, and with no hope of hearing anything interesting orhelpful.

  "Snakes!" Della exclaimed. "Didja say the poor man was seein' snakes,Mrs. Cullen?"

  "No, Della," Mrs. Cullen returned dolorously; "jist one. Flora says heniver see more th'n one--jist one big, long, ugly-faced horrible blackone; the same one comin' back an' makin' a fizzin' n'ise at um iv'rytime he had the fit on um. 'Twas alw'ys the same snake; an' he'd hollerat Flora. 'Here it comes ag'in, oh, me soul!' he'd holler. 'The big,black, ugly-faced thing; it's as long as the front fence!' he'd holler,'an' it's makin' a fizzin' n'ise at me, an' breathin' in me face!' he'dholler. 'Fer th' love o' hivin', Flora,
' he'd holler, 'it's got a littleblack man wit' a gassly white forehead a-pokin' of it along wit' abroom-handle, an' a-sickin' it on me, the same as a boy sicks a dog ona poor cat. Fer the love o' hivin', Flora,' he'd holler, 'cantcha frightit away from me before I go out o' me head?'"

  "Poor Tom!" said Della with deep compassion. "An' the poor man out ofhis head all the time, an' not knowin' it! 'Twas awful fer Flora to sitthere an' hear such things in the night like that!"

  "You may believe yerself whin ye say it!" Mrs. Cullen agreed. "Right thevery night the poor soul died, he was hollerin' how the big black snakeand the little black man wit' the gassly white forehead a-pokin' it wit'a broomstick had come fer um. 'Fright 'em away, Flora!' he was croakin',in a v'ice that hoarse an' husky 'twas hard to make out what he says.'Fright 'em away, Flora!' he says. ''Tis the big, black, ugly-facedsnake, as black as a black stockin' an' thicker round than me leg atthe thigh before I was wasted away!' he says, poor man. 'It's makin' thefizzin' n'ise awful to-night,' he says. 'An' the little black man wit'the gassly white forehead is a-laughin',' he says. 'He's a-laughin'an' a-pokin' the big, black, fizzin', ugly-faced snake wit' hisbroomstick--"

  Della was unable to endure the description.

  "Don't tell me no more, Mrs. Cullen!" she protested. "Poor Tom! Ithought Flora was wrong last week whin she hid the whisky. 'Twas takin'it away from him that killed him--an' him already so sick!"

  "Well," said Mrs. Cullen, "he hardly had the strengt' to drink much,she tells me, after he see the big snake an' the little black divil thefirst time. Poor woman, she says he talked so plain she sees 'em bothherself, iv'ry time she looks at the poor body where it's laid out. Shesays--"

  "Don't tell me!" cried the impressionable Della. "Don't tell me, Mrs.Cullen! I can most see 'em meself, right here in me own kitchen! PoorTom! To think whin I bought me new hat, only last week, the first timeI'd be wearin' it'd be to his funeral. To-morrow afternoon, it is?"

  "At two o'clock," said Mrs. Cullen. "Ye'll be comin' to th' houseto-night, o' course, Della?"

  "I will," said Della. "After what I've been hearin' from ye, I'm 'mostafraid to come, but I'll do it. Poor Tom! I remember the day him an'Flora was married--"

  But the eavesdropper heard no more; he was on his way up the backstairs. Life and light--and purpose had come to his face once more.

  Margaret was out for the afternoon. Unostentatiously, he went to herroom, and for the next few minutes occupied himself busily therein. Hewas so quiet that his mother, sewing in her own room, would not haveheard him except for the obstinacy of one of the drawers in Margaret'sbureau. Mrs. Schofield went to the door of her daughter's room.

  "What are you doing, Penrod?"

  "Nothin'."

  "You're not disturbing any of Margaret's things, are you?"

  "No, ma'am," said the meek lad.

  "What did you jerk that drawer open for?"

  "Ma'am?"

  "You heard me, Penrod."

  "Yes, ma'am. I was just lookin' for sumpthing."

  "For what?" Mrs. Schofield asked. "You know that nothing of yours wouldbe in Margaret's room, Penrod, don't you?"

  "Ma'am?"

  "What was it you wanted?" she asked, rather impatiently.

  "I was just lookin' for some pins."

  "Very well," she said, and handed him two from the shoulder of herblouse.

  "I ought to have more," he said. "I want about forty."

  "What for?"

  "I just want to MAKE sumpthing, Mamma," he said plaintively. "Mygoodness! Can't I even want to have a few pins without everybody makin'such a fuss about it you'd think I was doin' a srime!"

  "Doing a what, Penrod?"

  "A SRIME!" he repeated, with emphasis; and a moment's reflectionenlightened his mother.

  "Oh, a crime!" she exclaimed. "You MUST quit reading the murder trialsin the newspapers, Penrod. And when you read words you don't know how topronounce you ought to ask either your papa or me."

  "Well, I am askin' you about sumpthing now," Penrod said. "Can't Ieven have a few PINS without stoppin' to talk about everything in thenewspapers, Mamma?"

  "Yes," she said, laughing at his seriousness; and she took him to herroom, and bestowed upon him five or six rows torn from a paper of pins."That ought to be plenty," she said, "for whatever you want to make."

  And she smiled after his retreating figure, not noting that he lookedsoftly bulky around the body, and held his elbows unnaturally tight tohis sides. She was assured of the innocence of anything to be made withpins, and forbore to press investigation. For Penrod to be playing withpins seemed almost girlish. Unhappy woman, it pleased her to have herson seem girlish!

  Penrod went out to the stable, tossed his pins into the wheelbarrow,then took from his pocket and unfolded six pairs of long blackstockings, indubitably the property of his sister. (Evidently Mrs.Schofield had been a little late in making her appearance at the door ofMargaret's room.)

  Penrod worked systematically; he hung the twelve stockings over thesides of the wheelbarrow, and placed the wheelbarrow beside a largepacking-box that was half full of excelsior. One after another, hestuffed the stockings with excelsior, till they looked like twelve longblack sausages. Then he pinned the top of one stocking securely over thestuffed foot of another, pinning the top of a third to the foot of thesecond, the top of a fourth to the foot of the third--and continuedoperations in this fashion until the twelve stockings were the semblanceof one long and sinuous black body, sufficiently suggestive to anynormal eye.

  He tied a string to one end of this unpleasant-looking thing, led itaround the stable, and, by vigorous manipulations, succeeded in makingit wriggle realistically; but he was not satisfied, and, droppingthe string listlessly, sat down in the wheelbarrow to ponder. Penrodsometimes proved that there were within him the makings of an artist;he had become fascinated by an idea, and could not be content untilthat idea was beautifully realized. He had meant to create a big, long,ugly-faced horrible black snake with which to interest Della and herfriend, Mrs. Cullen; but he felt that results, so far, were too crudefor exploitation. Merely to lead the pinned stockings by a string waslittle to fulfill his ambitious vision.

  Finally, he rose from the wheelbarrow.

  "If I only had a cat!" he said dreamily.