There ensued a period when only a shrill keening marked the passing of Roderick as he was borne to the tumbril. Then all was silence.
. . . Sunset, striking through a western window, rouged the walls of the Schofields' library, where gathered a joint family council and court martial of four--Mrs. Schofield, Mr. Schofield, and Mr. and Mrs. Williams, parents of Samuel of that ilk. Mr. Williams read aloud a conspicuous passage from the last edition of the evening paper:
"Prominent people here believed close relations of woman sentenced to hang. Angry denial by Mrs. R. Magsworth Bitts.
Relationship admitted by younger member of family. His statement confirmed by boy-friends----"
"Don't!" said Mrs. Williams, addressing her husband vehemently. "We've all read it a dozen times. We've got plenty of trouble on our hands without hearing THAT again!"
Singularly enough, Mrs. Williams did not look troubled; she looked as if she were trying to look troubled. Mrs. Schofield wore a similar expression. So did Mr. Schofield. So did Mr. Williams.
"What did she say when she called YOU up?" Mrs. Schofield inquired breathlessly of Mrs. Williams.
"She could hardly speak at first, and then when she did talk, she talked so fast I couldn't understand most of it, and----"
"It was just the same when she tried to talk to me," said Mrs. Schofield, nodding.
"I never did hear any one in such a state before," continued Mrs. Williams. "So furious----"
"Quite justly, of course," said Mrs. Schofield.
"Of course. And she said Penrod and Sam had enticed Roderick away from home--usually he's not allowed to go outside the yard except with his tutor or a servant--and had told him to say that horrible creature was his aunt----"
"How in the world do you suppose Sam and Penrod ever thought of such a thing as THAT!" exclaimed Mrs. Schofield. "It must have been made up just for their `show.' Della says there were just STREAMS going in and out all day. Of course it wouldn't have happened, but this was the day Margaret and I spend every month in the country with Aunt Sarah, and I didn't DREAM----"
"She said one thing I thought rather tactless," interrupted Mrs. Williams. "Of course we must allow for her being dreadfully excited and wrought up, but I do think it wasn't quite delicate in her, and she's usually the very soul of delicacy. She said that Roderick had NEVER been allowed to associate with--common boys----"
"Meaning Sam and Penrod," said Mrs. Schofield. "Yes, she said that to me, too."
"She said that the most awful thing about it," Mrs. Williams went on, "was that, though she's going to prosecute the newspapers, many people would always believe the story, and----"
"Yes, I imagine they will," said Mrs. Schofield musingly.
"Of course you and I and everybody who really knows the Bitts and Magsworth families understand the perfect absurdity of it; but I suppose there are ever so many who'll believe it, no matter what the Bittses and Magsworths say."
"Hundreds and hundreds!" said Mrs. Williams. "I'm afraid it will be a great come-down for them."
"I'm afraid so," said Mrs. Schofield gently. "A very great one--yes, a very, very great one."
"Well," observed Mrs. Williams, after a thoughtful pause, "there's only one thing to be done, and I suppose it had better be done right away."
She glanced toward the two gentlemen.
"Certainly," Mr. Schofield agreed. "But where ARE they?"
"Have you looked in the stable?" asked his wife.
"I searched it. They've probably started for the far West."
"Did you look in the sawdust-box?"
"No, I didn't."
"Then that's where they are."
Thus, in the early twilight, the now historic stable was approached by two fathers charged to do the only thing to be done. They entered the storeroom.
"Penrod!" said Mr. Schofield.
"Sam!" said Mr. Williams.
Nothing disturbed the twilight hush.
But by means of a ladder, brought from the carriage-house, Mr. Schofield mounted to the top of the sawdust-box. He looked within, and discerned the dim outlines of three quiet figures, the third being that of a small dog.
The two boys rose, upon command, descended the ladder after Mr. Schofield, bringing Duke with them, and stood before the authors of their being, who bent upon them sinister and threatening brows. With hanging heads and despondent countenances, each still ornamented with a moustache and an imperial, Penrod and Sam awaited sentence.
This is a boy's lot: anything he does, anything whatever, may afterward turn out to have been a crime--he never knows.
And punishment and clemency are alike inexplicable.
Mr. Williams took his son by the ear.
"You march home!" he commanded.
Sam marched, not looking back, and his father followed the small figure implacably.
"You goin' to whip me?" quavered Penrod, alone with Justice.
"Wash your face at that hydrant," said his father sternly.
About fifteen minutes later, Penrod, hurriedly entering the corner drug store, two blocks distant, was astonished to perceive a familiar form at the soda counter.
"Yay, Penrod," said Sam Williams. "Want some sody? Come on.
He didn't lick me. He didn't do anything to me at all. He gave me a quarter."
"So'd mine," said Penrod.
