Delphi Complete Works of Booth Tarkington (Illustrated), page 207
“Les Papillons” came to a conclusion. Carlie and Georgie bowed; Marjorie Jones and Baby Rennsdale curtesied, and there was loud applause. In fact, the demonstration became so uproarious that some measure of it was open to suspicion, especially as hisses of reptilian venomousness were commingled with it, and also a hoarse but vociferous repetition of the dastard words, “Carrie dances ROTTEN!” Again it was the work of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern; but the plot was attributed to another.
“SHAME, Penrod Schofield!” said both the aunts Rennsdale publicly, and Penrod, wholly innocent, became scarlet with indignant mortification. Carlie Chitten himself, however, marked the true offenders. A slight flush tinted his cheeks, and then, in his quiet, self-contained way, he slipped through the crowd of girls and boys, unnoticed, into the hall, and ran noiselessly up the stairs and into the “gentlemen’s dressing-room”, now inhabited only by hats, caps, overcoats, and the temporarily discarded shoes of the dancers. Most of the shoes stood in rows against the wall, and Carlie examined these rows attentively, after a time discovering a pair of shoes with patent leather tips. He knew them; they belonged to Maurice Levy, and, picking them up, he went to a corner of the room where four shoes had been left together under a chair. Upon the chair were overcoats and caps that he was able to identify as the property of Penrod Schofield and Samuel Williams; but, as he was not sure which pair of shoes belonged to Penrod and which to Sam, he added both pairs to Maurice’s and carried them into the bathroom. Here he set the plug in the tub, turned the faucets, and, after looking about him and discovering large supplies of all sorts in a wall cabinet, he tossed six cakes of green soap into the tub. He let the soap remain in the water to soften a little, and, returning to the dressing room, whiled away the time in mixing and mismating pairs of shoes along the walls, and also in tying the strings of the mismated shoes together in hard knots.
Throughout all this, his expression was grave and intent; his bright eyes grew brighter, but he did not smile. Carlie Chitten was a singular boy, though not unique: he was an “only child”, lived at a hotel, and found life there favourable to the development of certain peculiarities in his nature. He played a lone hand, and with what precocious diplomacy he played that curious hand was attested by the fact that Carlie was brilliantly esteemed by parents and guardians in general.
It must be said for Carlie that, in one way, his nature was liberal. For instance, having come upstairs to prepare a vengeance upon Sam and Maurice in return for their slurs upon his dancing, he did not confine his efforts to the belongings of those two alone. He provided every boy in the house with something to think about later, when shoes should be resumed; and he was far from stopping at that. Casting about him for some material that he desired, he opened a door of the dressing-room and found himself confronting the apartment of Miss Lowe. Upon a desk he beheld the bottle of mucilage he wanted, and, having taken possession of it, he allowed his eye the privilege of a rapid glance into a dressing table drawer, accidentally left open.
He returned to the dressing-room, five seconds later, carrying not only the mucilage but a “switch” worn by Miss Lowe when her hair was dressed in a fashion different from that which she had favoured for the party. This “switch” he placed in the pocket of a juvenile overcoat unknown to him, and then he took the mucilage into the bathroom. There he rescued from the water the six cakes of soap, placed one in each of the six shoes, pounding it down securely into the toe of the shoe with the handle of a back brush. After that, Carlie poured mucilage into all six shoes impartially until the bottle was empty, then took them back to their former positions in the dressing-room. Finally, with careful forethought, he placed his own shoes in the pockets of his overcoat, and left the overcoat and his cap upon a chair near the outer door of the room. Then he went quietly downstairs, having been absent from the festivities a little less than twelve minutes. He had been energetic — only a boy could have accomplished so much in so short a time. In fact, Carlie had been so busy that his forgetting to turn off the faucets in the bathroom is not at all surprising.
No one had noticed his absence. That infectious pastime, “Gotcher bumpus”, had broken out again, and the general dancing, which had been resumed upon the conclusion of “Les Papillons”, was once more becoming demoralized. Despairingly the aunts Rennsdale and Miss Lowe brought forth from the rear of the house a couple of waiters and commanded them to arrest the ringleaders, whereupon hilarious terror spread among the outlaw band. Shouting tauntingly at their pursuers, they fled — and bellowing, trampling flight swept through every quarter of the house.
Refreshments quelled this outbreak for a time. The orchestra played a march; Carlie Chitten and Georgie Bassett, with Amy Rennsdale and Marjorie, formed the head of a procession, while all the boys who had retained their sense of decorum immediately sought partners and fell in behind. The outlaws, succumbing to ice cream hunger, followed suit, one after the other, until all of the girls were provided with escorts. Then, to the moral strains of “The Stars and Stripes Forever”, the children paraded out to the dining-room. Two and two they marched, except at the extreme tail end of the line, where, since there were three more boys than girls at the party, the three left-over boys were placed. These three were also the last three outlaws to succumb and return to civilization from outlying portions of the house after the pursuit by waiters. They were Messieurs Maurice Levy, Samuel Williams, and Penrod Schofield.
They took their chairs in the capacious dining-room quietly enough, though their expressions were eloquent of bravado, and they jostled one another and their neighbours intentionally, even in the act of sitting. However, it was not long before delectable foods engaged their whole attention and Miss Amy Rennsdale’s party relapsed into etiquette for the following twenty minutes. The refection concluded with the mild explosion of paper “crackers” that erupted bright-coloured, fantastic headgear, and, during the snapping of the “crackers”, Penrod heard the voice of Marjorie calling from somewhere behind him, “Carrie and Amy, will you change chairs with Georgie Bassett and me — just for fun?” The chairs had been placed in rows, back to back, and Penrod would not even turn his head to see if Master Chitten and Miss Rennsdale accepted Marjorie’s proposal, though they were directly behind him and Sam; but he grew red and breathed hard. A moment later, the liberty-cap that he had set upon his head was softly removed, and a little crown of silver paper put in its place.
“PENROD?”
The whisper was close to his ear, and a gentle breath cooled the back of his neck.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE HEART OF MARJORIE JONES
“WELL, WHAT YOU want?” Penrod asked, brusquely.
Marjorie’s wonderful eyes were dark and mysterious, like still water at twilight.
“What makes you behave so AWFUL?” she whispered.
“I don’t either! I guess I got a right to do the way I want to, haven’t I?”
“Well, anyway,” said Marjorie, “you ought to quit bumping into people so it hurts.”
“Poh! It wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
“Yes, it did. It hurt when you bumped Maurice and me that time.”
“It didn’t either. WHERE’D it hurt you? Let’s see if it—”
“Well, I can’t show you, but it did. Penrod, are you going to keep on?”
Penrod’s heart had melted within him; but his reply was pompous and cold. “I will if I feel like it, and I won’t if I feel like it. You wait and see.”
But Marjorie jumped up and ran around to him abandoning her escort. All the children were leaving their chairs and moving toward the dancing-rooms; the orchestra was playing dance-music again.
“Come on, Penrod!” Marjorie cried. “Let’s go dance this together. Come on!”
With seeming reluctance, he suffered her to lead him away. “Well, I’ll go with you; but I won’t dance,” he said “I wouldn’t dance with the President of the United States”
“Why, Penrod?”
“Well — because well, I won’t DO it!”
“All right. I don’t care. I guess I’ve danced plenty, anyhow. Let’s go in here.” She led him into a room too small for dancing, used ordinarily by Miss Amy Rennsdale’s father as his study, and now vacant. For a while there was silence; but finally Marjorie pointed to the window and said shyly:
“Look, Penrod, it’s getting dark. The party’ll be over pretty soon, and you’ve never danced one single time!”
“Well, I guess I know that, don’t I?”
He was unable to cast aside his outward truculence though it was but a relic. However, his voice was gentler, and Marjorie seemed satisfied. From the other rooms came the swinging music, shouts of “Gotcher bumpus!” sounds of stumbling, of scrambling, of running, of muffled concus signs and squeals of dismay. Penrod’s followers were renewing the wild work, even in the absence of their chief.
“Penrod Schofield, you bad boy,” said Marjorie, “you started every bit of that! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he said — and he believed it. “Pick on me for everything!”
“Well, they wouldn’t if you didn’t do so much,” said Marjorie.
“They would, too.”
“They wouldn’t, either. Who would?”
“That Miss Lowe,” he specified bitterly. “Yes, and Baby Rennsdale’s aunts. If the house’d burn down, I bet they’d say Penrod Schofield did it! Anybody does anything at ALL, they say, ‘Penrod Schofield, shame on you!’ When you and Carlie were dan—”
“Penrod, I just hate that little Carlie Chitten. P’fesser Bartet made me learn that dance with him; but I just hate him.”
Penrod was now almost completely mollified; nevertheless, he continued to set forth his grievance. “Well, they all turned around to me and they said, ‘Why, Penrod Schofield, shame on you!’ And I hadn’t done a single thing! I was just standin’ there. They got to blame ME, though!”
Marjorie laughed airily. “Well, if you aren’t the foolishest—”
“They would, too,” he asserted, with renewed bitterness. “If the house was to fall down, you’d see! They’d all say—”
Marjorie interrupted him. She put her hand on the top of her head, looking a little startled.
“What’s that?” she said.
“What’s what?”
“Like rain!” Marjorie cried. “Like it was raining in here! A drop fell on my—”
“Why, it couldn’t—” he began. But at this instant a drop fell upon his head, too, and, looking up, they beheld a great oozing splotch upon the ceiling. Drops were gathering upon it and falling; the tinted plaster was cracking, and a little stream began to patter down and splash upon the floor. Then there came a resounding thump upstairs, just above them, and fragments of wet plaster fell.
“The roof must be leaking,” said Marjorie, beginning to be alarmed.
“Couldn’t be the roof,” said Penrod. “Besides there ain’t any rain outdoors.”
As he spoke, a second slender stream of water began to patter upon the floor of the hall outside the door.
“Good gracious!” Marjorie cried, while the ceiling above them shook as with earthquake — or as with boys in numbers jumping, and a great uproar burst forth overhead.
“I believe the house IS falling down, Penrod!” she quavered.
“Well, they’ll blame ME for it!” he said. “Anyways, we better get out o’ here. I guess sumpthing must be the matter.”
His guess was accurate, so far as it went. The dance-music had swung into “Home Sweet Home” some time before, the children were preparing to leave, and Master Chitten had been the first boy to ascend to the gentlemen’s dressing-room for his cap, overcoat and shoes, his motive being to avoid by departure any difficulty in case his earlier activities should cause him to be suspected by the other boys. But in the doorway he halted, aghast.
The lights had not been turned on; but even the dim windows showed that the polished floor gave back reflections no floor-polish had ever equalled. It was a gently steaming lake, from an eighth to a quarter of an inch deep. And Carlie realized that he had forgotten to turn off the faucets in the bathroom.
For a moment, his savoir faire deserted him, and he was filled with ordinary, human-boy panic. Then, at a sound of voices behind him, he lost his head and rushed into the bathroom. It was dark, but certain sensations and the splashing of his pumps warned him that the water was deeper in there. The next instant the lights were switched on in both bathroom and dressing-room, and Carlie beheld Sam Williams in the doorway of the former.
“Oh, look, Maurice!” Sam shouted, in frantic excitement. “Somebody’s let the tub run over, and it’s about ten feet deep! Carlie Chitten’s sloshin’ around in here. Let’s hold the door on him and keep him in!”
Carlie rushed to prevent the execution of this project; but he slipped and went swishing full length along the floor, creating a little surf before him as he slid, to the demoniac happiness of Sam and Maurice. They closed the door, however, and, as other boys rushed, shouting and splashing, into the flooded dressing-room, Carlie began to hammer upon the panels. Then the owners of shoes, striving to rescue them from the increasing waters, made discoveries.
The most dangerous time to give a large children’s party is when there has not been one for a long period. The Rennsdale party had that misfortune, and its climax was the complete and convulsive madness of the gentlemen’s dressing-room during those final moments supposed to be given to quiet preparations, on the part of guests, for departure.
In the upper hall and upon the stairway, panic-stricken little girls listened, wild-eyed, to the uproar that went on, while waiters and maid servants rushed with pails and towels into what was essentially the worst ward in Bedlam. Boys who had behaved properly all afternoon now gave way and joined the confraternity of lunatics. The floors of the house shook to tramplings, rushes, wrestlings, falls and collisions. The walls resounded to chorused bellowings and roars. There were pipings of pain and pipings of joy; there was whistling to pierce the drums of ears; there were hootings and howlings and bleatings and screechings, while over all bleated the heathen battle-cry incessantly: “GOTCHER BUMPUS! GOTCHER BUMPUS!” For the boys had been inspired by the unusual water to transform Penrod’s game of “Gotcher bumpus” into an aquatic sport, and to induce one another, by means of superior force, dexterity, or stratagems, either to sit or to lie at full length in the flood, after the example of Carlie Chitten.
One of the aunts Rennsdale had taken what charge she could of the deafened and distracted maids and waiters who were working to stem the tide, while the other of the aunts Rennsdale stood with her niece and Miss Lowe at the foot of the stairs, trying to say good-night reassuringly to those of the terrified little girls who were able to tear themselves away. This latter aunt Rennsdale marked a dripping figure that came unobtrusively, and yet in a self-contained and gentlemanly manner, down the stairs.
“Carlie Chitten!” she cried. “You poor dear child, you’re soaking! To think those outrageous little fiends wouldn’t even spare YOU!” As she spoke, another departing male guest came from behind Carlie and placed in her hand a snakelike article — a thing that Miss Lowe seized and concealed with one sweeping gesture.
“It’s some false hair somebody must of put in my overcoat pocket,” said Roderick Magsworth Bitts. “Well, ‘g-night. Thank you for a very nice time.”
“Good-night, Miss Rennsdale,” said Master Chitten demurely. “Thank you for a—”
But Miss Rennsdale detained him. “Carrie,” she said earnestly, “you’re a dear boy, and I know you’ll tell me something. It was all Penrod Schofield, wasn’t it?”
“You mean he left the—”
“I mean,” she said, in a low tone, not altogether devoid of ferocity. “I mean it was Penrod who left the faucets running, and Penrod who tied the boys’ shoes together, and filled some of them with soap and mucilage, and put Miss Lowe’s hair in Roddy Bitts’s overcoat. No; look me in the eye, Carlie! They were all shouting that silly thing he started. Didn’t he do it?”
Carlie cast down thoughtful eyes. “I wouldn’t like to tell, Miss Rennsdale,” he said. “I guess I better be going or I’ll catch cold. Thank you for a very nice time.”
“There!” said Miss Rennsdale vehemently, as Carlie went on his way. “What did I tell you? Carlie Chitten’s too manly to say it, but I just KNOW it was that terrible Penrod Schofield.”
Behind her, a low voice, unheard by all except the person to whom it spoke, repeated a part of this speech: “What did I tell you?”
This voice belonged to one Penrod Schofield.
Penrod and Marjorie had descended by another stairway, and he now considered it wiser to pass to the rear of the little party at the foot of the stairs. As he was still in his pumps, his choked shoes occupying his overcoat pockets, he experienced no difficulty in reaching the front door, and getting out of it unobserved, although the noise upstairs was greatly abated. Marjorie, however, made her curtseys and farewells in a creditable manner.
“There!” Penrod said again, when she rejoined him in the darkness outside. “What did I tell you? Didn’t I say I’d get the blame of it, no matter if the house went and fell down? I s’pose they think I put mucilage and soap in my own shoes.”
Marjorie delayed at the gate until some eagerly talking little girls had passed out. The name “Penrod Schofield” was thick and scandalous among them.
“Well,” said Marjorie, “I wouldn’t care, Penrod. ‘Course, about soap and mucilage in YOUR shoes, anybody’d know some other boy must of put ’em there to get even for what you put in his.”
Penrod gasped.
“But I DIDN’T!” he cried. “I didn’t do ANYTHING! That ole Miss Rennsdale can say what she wants to, I didn’t do—”
“Well, anyway, Penrod,” said Marjorie, softly, “they can’t ever PROVE it was you.”
