I know he was the one stuck that cold fried egg in P'fesser Bartet's overcoat pocket at dancin'-school, and ole p'fesser went and blamed it on me. Then, Carlie, he ctm up to me, th' other day, and he says, 'Smell my buttonhole bokay.' He had some vi'lets stickin' in his buttonhole, and I went to smell 'em and water squirted on me out of 'em. I guess I've stood about enough, and if he does another thing I don't like, he better look out!"
Penrod showed some interest, inquiring for details, whereupon Maurice explained that if Master Chitten displeased him further, Master Chitten would receive a blow upon one of his features.
Maurice was simple and homely about it, seeking rhetorical vigour rather than elegance; in fact, what he definitely promised Master Chitten was "a bang on the snoot."
"Well," said Penrod, "he never bothered ME any. I expect he knows too much for that!"
A cry of pain was heard from the dressing-room at this juncture, and, glancing through the doorway, Maurice and Penrod beheld Sam Williams in the act of sucking his right thumb with vehemence, the while his brow was contorted and his eyes watered. He came into the bathroom and held his thumb under a faucet.
"That darn little Carlie Chitten!" he complained. "He ast me to hold a little tin box he showed me. He told me to hold it between my thumb and fingers and he'd show me sumpthing. Then he pushed the lid, and a big needle came out of a hole and stuck me half through my thumb. That's a NICE way to act, isn't it?"
Carlie Chitten's dark head showed itself cautiously beyond the casing of the door.
"How's your thumb, Sam?" he asked.
"You wait!" Sam shouted, turning furiously; but the small prestidigitator was gone. With a smothered laugh, Carlie dashed through the groups of boys in the dressing-room and made his way downstairs, his manner reverting to its usual polite gravity before he entered the drawing-room, where his hostess waited.
Music sounding at about this time, he was followed by the other boys, who came trooping down, leaving the dressing-room empty.
Penrod, among the tail-enders of the procession, made his dancing-school bow to Miss Rennsdale and her grown-up supporters (two maiden aunts and a governess) then he looked about for Marjorie, discovering her but too easily. Her amber curls were swaying gently in time to the music; she looked never more beautiful, and her partner was Master Chitten!
A pang of great penetrative power and equal unexpectedness found the most vulnerable spot beneath the simple black of Penrod Schofield's jacket. Straightway he turned his back upon the crash-covered floors where the dancers were, and moved gloomily toward the hall. But one of the maiden aunts Rennsdale waylaid him.
"It's Penrod Schofield, isn't it?" she asked. "Or Sammy Williams?
I'm not sure which. Is it Penrod?"
"Ma'am?" he said. "Yes'm."
"Well, Penrod, I can find a partner for you. There are several dear little girls over here, if you'll come with me."
"Well--" He paused, shifted from one foot to the other, and looked enigmatic. "I better not," he said. He meant no offence; his trouble was only that he had not yet learned how to do as he pleased at a party and, at the same time, to seem polite about it. "I guess I don't want to," he added.
"Very well!" And Miss Rennsdale instantly left him to his own devices.
He went to lurk in the wide doorway between the hall and the drawing-room--under such conditions the universal refuge of his sex at all ages. There he found several boys of notorious shyness, and stood with them in a mutually protective group. Now and then one of them would lean upon another until repelled by action and a husky "What's matter 'th you? Get off o' me!" They all twisted their slender necks uneasily against the inner bands of their collars, at intervals, and sometimes exchanged facetious blows under cover. In the distance Penrod caught glimpses of amber curls flashing to and fro, and he knew himself to be among the derelicts.
He remained in this questionable sanctuary during the next dance; but, edging along the wall to lean more comfortably in a corner, as the music of the third sounded, he overheard part of a conversation that somewhat concerned him. The participants were the governess of his hostess, Miss Lowe, and that one of the aunts Rennsdale who had offered to provide him with a partner.
These two ladies were standing just in front of him, unconscious of his nearness.
"I never," Miss Rennsdale said, "never saw a more fascinating little boy than that Carlie Chitten. There'll be some heartaches when he grows up; I can't keep my eyes off him."
"Yes; he's a charming boy," Miss Lowe said. "His manners are remarkable."
"He's a little man of the world," the enthusiastic Miss Rennsdale went on, "very different from such boys as Penrod Schofield!"
"Oh, PENROD!" Miss Lowe exclaimed. "Good gracious!"
"I don't see why he came. He declines to dance--rudely, too!"
"I don't think the little girls will mind that so much!" Miss Lowe said. "If you'd come to the dancing class some Friday with Amy and me, you'd understand why."
They moved away. Penrod heard his name agam mentioned between them as they went, and, though he did not catch the accompanying remark, he was inclined to think it unfavourable. He remained where he was, brooding morbidly.
He understood that the government was against him, nor was his judgment at fault in this conclusion. He was affected, also, by the conduct of Marjorie, who was now dancing gayly with Maurice Levy, a former rival of Penrod's. The fact that Penrod had not gone near her did not make her culpability seem the less; in his gloomy heart he resolved not to ask her for one single dance. He would not go near her. He would not go near ANY OF 'EM!
