"Penrod," said his mother, "what did you do with that loaf of bread Della says you took from the table?"
"Ma'am? WHAT loaf o' bread?"
"I believe I can't let you go outdoors this afternoon," Mrs.
Schofield said severely. "If you were hungry, you know perfectly well all you had to do was to--"
"But I wasn't hungry; I--"
"You can explain later," Mrs. Schofield said. "You'll have all afternoon."
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 to a--to a poor ole man. He was starving and so were his children and his wife. They were all just STARVING--and they couldn't wait while I took time to come and ask you, Mamma. I got to GO outdoors this afternoon. I GOT to! Sam's--"
She relented.
In the carriage-house, half an hour later, Penrod gave an account of the episode.
"Where'd we been, I'd just like to know," he concluded, "if I hadn't got out here this afternoon?"
"Well, I guess I could managed him all right," Sam said. "I was in the passageway, 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'd had to stay in the house, where would we been about the most important thing in the whole biz'nuss?"
"What you talkin' about?"
"Well, why can't you wait till I tell you?" Penrod's tone had become peevish. For that matter, so had Sam's; they were developing one of the little differences, or quarrels, that composed the very texture of their friendship.
"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't you? 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 and forgot 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 get the 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 you about, 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 as each persisted in clinging to his own interpretation of the facts, the question still remains unsettled. It was abandoned, or rather, it merged into another during the later stages of the debate, this other being concerned with which of the debaters had the least "sense." Each made the plain statement that if he were more deficient than his opponent in that regard, self-destruction would be his only refuge. Each declared that he would "rather die than be talked to death"; and then, as the two approached a point bluntly recriminative, Whitey coughed again, whereupon they were miraculously silent, and went into the passageway in a perfectly amiable manner.
"I got to have a good look at him, for once," Penrod said, as he stared frowningly 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 to the carriage-house and seated themselves thoughtfully. In truth, they were something a shade more than thoughtful; the adventure to which they had committed themselves was beginning to be a little overpowering. If Whitey had been a dog, a goat, a fowl, or even a stray calf, they would have felt equal to him; but now that the earlier glow of their wild daring 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 an enterprise connected with so huge an animal as an actual horse was perilous. Beneath the surface of their musings, dim but ominous prophecies moved; both boys began to have the feeling that, somehow, this affair was going to get beyond them and that they would be in heavy trouble before it was over--they knew not why. They knew why no more than they knew why they felt it imperative to keep the fact of Whitey's presence in the stable a secret from their respective families; but they did begin to realize that keeping a secret of that size was going to be attended with some difficulty. In brief, their sensations were becoming comparable to those of the man who stole a house.
Nevertheless, after a short period given to unspoken misgivings, they returned to the subj ect of the reward. The money-value of bay horses, as compared to white, was again discussed, and each announced his certainty that nothing less than "a good ole hunderd dollars" would be offered for the return of Whitey.
But immediately after so speaking they fell into another silence, due to sinking feelings. They had spoken loudly and confidently, and yet they knew, somehow, that such things were not to be.
According to their knowledge, it was perfectly reasonable to suppose that they would receive this fortune; but they frightened themselves in speaking of it. They knew that they COULD not have a hundred dollars for their own. An oppression, as from something awful and criminal, descended upon them at intervals.
