Delphi Complete Works of Booth Tarkington (Illustrated), page 481
“I won’t!” Ronald declared vehemently. “You gimme that little gun!”
“But it’s my turn. We said we’d each keep it ten minutes for you and then ten minutes for me.”
“I did not! You said so. I never said anything about it at all. You gimme my little gun! I — —”
“I won’t do it,” said Penrod stoutly. “Not till you go look at the clock ten minutes. I looked at it ten minutes, didn’t I?”
“You gimme my little gun!” Ronald insisted, growing visibly and audibly more intense. “It’s my little gun, I guess! And whose quarter paid for it? You just answer me that, I’d like to ask!”
“I don’t care who!” Penrod returned lightly. “Look, Ronald: I’m chief o’ the Fire Department. This is the way I do!” And he began to romp over the grass with the replenished squirt-gun. “Watch, Ronald! Here’s me!”
But Ronald showed even less interest in Penrod’s performance than Penrod had shown in Ronald’s, and, while Penrod — ever inspired to excel — now brought forth from his creative soul and painted upon the empty air not one mere hose-reel alone but the complex machineries of a completely equipped metropolitan Fire Department, including motor-driven ladder-trucks, chemical engines and something he called a “fire-tower”, Ronald brooded near by with obvious malevolence.
He was not wholly unwatchful, however, as he proceeded to prove, about four minutes after the beginning of Penrod’s “turn”. The new fireman happened to be holding the squirt-gun somewhat loosely in his left hand, gesticulating for the moment with his right, and his back was toward Ronald. Ronald darted upon him, captured the squirt-gun with one swift and stealthy jerk, then sped away, laughing tauntingly.
“You give that back here!” Penrod cried, pursuing. “It ain’t half a minute since my turn began! You never went near the clock! If I catch you, I’ll — —”
But Ronald was fleet. He disappeared round a corner of the house, and Penrod beheld the squirt-gun no more that day. Ronald scrambled through an open window before his pursuer turned the corner, and, half an hour later, leaving the squirt-gun securely hidden within the house, the visitor again sought the back yard, discovering his host gloomily beginning the mastication of an apple.
“Biters!” Ronald immediately vociferated. “Biters! I got you, Penrod! Biters!”
“Yes, you will!” Penrod returned sardonically. “You got no more chance to get biters on this apple than — —” But here he was forced to interrupt himself by a cry of sincere emotion. Ronald swooped upon him, this time in a frontal attack, and, with a motion as rapid as a prestidigitator’s, snatched the apple from Penrod’s hand. Again Ronald disappeared, cackling, round the corner of the house, safely in advance.
“All right for you!” Penrod called bitterly after him, abandoning the chase. “Go on; keep it! What I care! I know where’s sumpthing better’n any ole apple, and just because you haf to go and act a pig, you don’t get any what I’m goin’ to get!”
Never was he less a true prophet. As he emerged from the kitchen, a few minutes later, triumphant in the contemplation of half a dozen cookies, cajoled from Della and intended to be eaten tantalizingly in the presence of Ronald, this latter lay in wait behind the outward-swinging screen door, and again a surprise attack was successful. Ronald was one of those bright-eyed little boys who are as quick and as sly as cats.
Penrod was so deftly robbed of the six cookies that he remained staring incredulously at the crumby and still feebly gesticulating fingers of his left hand until a hastily massed portion of the ravished delicacies had already passed Ronald’s esophagus and epiglottis and established itself as a through tourist for the whole route of his alimentary canal. The dazed eyes of Penrod lifted from his vacant hand and perceived the undulations of Ronald’s slender throat as this journey was thus begun. Then Penrod made outcry and tried to retrieve what might be retrievable.
But Ronald had discovered that he was easily the fleeter. Disdaining to seek cover, this time, he dodged, ducked and zigzagged, eating spasmodically the while, and not failing to describe in rich words the ecstasies produced in his insides by the food, which he maddeningly affected to believe Penrod had presented to him. He ate the cakes to the last infuriating crumb, dancing just beyond arm’s length, while Penrod formed a plan of retaliation, deciding that he would obtain a fresh supply from Della, and, behind a closed window, eat cookies at Ronald. He went to the length of rehearsing mentally the scornful gestures to accompany this performance, which might have proven an effective one if Della had been a woman with a real heart in her bosom. Unfortunately, she was of those whom no pathos moves except their own, and for to-day she had founded herself stonily upon the senseless and arbitrary dogma, “Six is enough”, her only variation being quite as discouraging— “Well, annyway, you’ll git no more!”
Following this chilling siege, Penrod spent half an hour, satisfying himself that when Della really intended to hide a pan of cookies she was able to do it. After this, he returned to the yard gloomily, but with his hurt somewhat healed by time.
New injuries awaited him at the hands of Ronald. The latter found it amusing to snatch things from his cousin, and Penrod could not pick up a stick or twig or even a pebble to throw, but Ronald made his attempt upon it, and always (unless Penrod was alertly upon his guard) successfully. By sunset, Penrod had begun to wear a badgered look.
He was silent, not to say heavy, at the evening meal; there was upon his youthful front something not unsuggestive of the careworn expression of Mr. Passloe, Ronald’s father. And when Mrs. Schofield, with a mother’s absent smile, asked her son if he and Ronald had enjoyed a “happy afternoon, playing together”, Penrod’s answer was naught. One would have said he did not hear.
Ronald, on the other hand, was talkative. He dominated the table — though Mr. Passloe frequently offered nervous protest — while the Schofield family (except Penrod) listened to the boyish chatter with the indulgent responsiveness that all polite people show to other people’s children.
As Ronald talked on, disjointedly interrupting, squeaking, yipping, sometimes almost shouting, Penrod’s parents and sister Margaret exhibited every token of friendly and approving interest. They wore the air of people greatly pleased by the conversation of a witty and distinguished person, and yet, all the while, little seemed plainer to Penrod than the fact that Ronald was, definitely, nothing but the freshest little smart Aleck on earth. Penrod became, first, embittered; next, envious and jealous; then he began to ponder, though dimly. Ronald’s ways appeared to be successful. It might pay to be like that!
This impression was confirmed during the service of dessert. Ronald announced that he wished to attend a “pitcher-show” that evening, and his father promptly and sharply denied the consequent application for funds. He denied permission as well, concluding decidedly, “You’ll be in bed before half-past eight, or I’ll know the reason why!”
“But, Papa — —”
“Not another word, Ronald. You can’t go, and we don’t wish to hear anything more about it.”
“But, Papa,” Ronald persevered, “it’s only ten cents, and Penrod’s papa will give him ten cents, and — —”
“No, he won’t,” said Mr. Passloe.
“Well, then,” Ronald responded briskly, “I don’t care if I haf to go alone.”
“No; you can’t go — —”
“Well, then, you can give us twenty cents and I’ll buy a ticket for Penrod, too.”
“Didn’t you hear me say you couldn’t go?”
“Pop-puh!”
“Not another word now!”
“Please, Papa!”
“I said — —”
“Pop-puh!”
“I told you — —”
At this point Ronald became emotional; his young voice quavered piteously. “Papa, it’s only twenty cents! I should think you could spare that much when — you know what a nice time I and Penrod would have! Papa, I got to go to that pitcher-show! I got to!”
“Shame on you,” said his father sternly, “making such a fuss at the table when you’re on a visit! Look at Penrod, how nicely he sits and how quiet he keeps.”
“Well, that’s not so usual,” Mr. Schofield felt called upon to say, coming to the rescue of Ronald. “Ronald seems to me a very nice little boy.”
“I’m ashamed of him,” said Mr. Passloe. “The idea of his making such a distur — —”
“Pop-puh!” Ronald interrupted vehemently. “Pop-puh! You got to gimme that twenty cents! You got to do it!”
Here Mrs. Schofield attempted to mediate. She smilingly offered a compromise. “But dear,” she said sweetly to Ronald, “if your papa doesn’t want you to go this evening because it’s dark and late — and I’d just a little rather Penrod didn’t go, either — think what a nice time you can have to-morrow! When to-morrow comes, and all nice, bright sunshine — —”
She continued to expand this theme, offering rewards and enticements — for the morrow. Even in the silent Penrod these evoked no responsive anticipations. A boy can look forward ecstatically to his birthday, to the Fourth of July, to Thanksgiving dinner and to Christmas. Those are the only morrows that weigh greatly with him, and grown people are seldom less intelligent than when they follow that eternal custom of theirs — offering boys beauteous morrows, invented on the spur of the moment, and easily recognizable as mere dismal words to offset immediate pleasures already within grasp. Ronald was moved by Mrs. Schofield’s soft eloquence — moved to break out in a yell.
“Rats!” he vociferated, and set an exclamation point upon the shocking word — a heartrending sob. “Oh! I don’t — oh! — want to go to any crazy ole matinée to — oh! — to-morrow!” he wailed. “I want to go to that pitcher-show to-night!”
“Ronald,” his father warned him sharply, “you’re disgustingly rude!”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Schofield lightly, “Ronald didn’t mean to be impolite at all. He’s a very good boy — aren’t you, Ronald?”
Ronald paid no attention to her, renewing the attack upon his father with vehemence. But the murky glance of Penrod swept Mrs. Schofield; he gave her a long look wherein strong injury mingled with perplexity.
And why should he not have been injured and perplexed? To a boy, a visitor is a visitor for only the first hour or so; after that, you know him about as well as you know anybody. Penrod was unable to perceive that his family was being indulgent toward Ronald because the latter was a guest in the house, and, if he had perceived this, the point of etiquette involved would have seemed founded upon vicious unreason; he could not understand why a guest should be treated better than anybody else. But he saw, all too plainly, that Ronald was behaving in a way that would have insured punishment for Penrod Schofield — and here were Penrod’s parents making excuses for Ronald and calling him “good” and “nice”! Evidently they liked this sort of thing.
“Pop-puh!” screamed Ronald.
“One — two — three — four—” Mr. Passloe began ominously.
“Pop-puh! Oh, please, please, please, please! Papa, you know how I want to go to that pitcher-show! It wouldn’t hurt you to let me go! What harm would it do you — unless you don’t want me to have a nice time! Papa, you don’t want me to! You don’t! You don’t! Oh, Pop-puh, please, please! Please!”
His passion had become acute. Mr. Passloe groaned, “Oh, good heavens!” and plunged his hand into his pocket, drawing forth two dimes.
“C’m on, Penrod!” said Ronald briskly.
“Can I, Mamma?”
“Well — since Ronald wants to go so much,” Mrs. Schofield said affably.
And, as the two boys passed out of the front door, Penrod happened to sneeze, and therefore drew forth his handkerchief; but before he had time to make it of any service to him, Ronald, with a malicious yell, snatched it out of his hand, and ran caroling down the walk and through the gateway — a sprightly soul with never a care in the world.
VIII. LITTLE RONALD
THIS SNATCHING HABIT of Ronald’s, jocular as it was, palled so heavily upon Penrod the next morning that he withdrew from his visitor’s company, and, leaving Ronald the whole of the Schofields’ yard as a playground, put several fences between himself and the snatcher, then emerged to the comforting, secluded alley, where he walked, inwardly communing. Ere long he encountered one Herman, who, in recognition of summer’s approach, walked with brown feet bare and would go thus unshod until October. To-day his feet moved slowly in the alley dust, for Herman was preoccupied with a turtle, an intelligent animal about the size of the palm of the brown hand upon which it rested.
“Yay!” shouted Penrod, his troubles forgotten. “Where’d you get that turtle, Herman?”
“I trade him off’n Cubena Howliss,” Herman replied.
“Who’s Cubena Howliss?”
“Cubena live ovuh on canal bank,” said Herman. “She say, ‘Look, what settin’ right in pie-pan on kitchum flo’ las’ night!’ She say she mos’ yell her neck off. So she say she don’ want him so much, but she ain’ goin’ give no turkle away to nobody. I trade him off’n her.”
“What’d you trade?”
“I tuck an’ give her a good piece o’ kin’lin’-wood an’ a nice bode I foun’ ovuh where’s buil’n’ a house, an’ a nice knife-blade.”
Penrod touched the turtle’s head, which had protruded from the shell adventurously. “Yay!” he shouted. “A turtle’s mighty smart, Herman. All you got to do is just to touch ’em on the head or their tail or one o’ their feet or anything, and they’ll stick ’em right back in again, unless you grab it and hold on so’s they can’t.”
“My goo’ness, you think I don’ know that!” Herman exclaimed. “Whut I goin’ own a turkle fer ef I don’ know that much about ’em? Whut I want go an’ han’ ovuh ‘at stick o’ kin’lin’-wood an’ ‘at bode an’ nice knife-blade to Cubena Howliss fer, ef I don’ know no mo’ ‘bout a turkle ‘n what you say I do?”
“I didn’t say anything, Herman,” Penrod protested. “What you goin’ to do with him, Herman?”
“I’m go’ to cut my ‘nitials on his back, an’ ‘en I’m go’ to put him in a bucket in ow woodshed an’ wait fer him to grow. When he git big, my ‘nitials go’ to grow same as he do. Be two feet long some day!”
Penrod’s eyes glowed and enlarged. The idea he had just absorbed was more than fascinating; it was compelling. “Look here, Herman,” he said breathlessly. “Has this Cubena Howliss got any more turtles? Where’s she live?”
“She ain’ got no mo’,” said Herman. “ ’Iss here turkle on’y one she own, an’ she ain’ got air’ one lef’.”
“My!” Penrod exclaimed. “I would like to own that turtle, Herman! What’ll you trade for him?”
“Ain’ go’ trade fer him. I done trade to git him. Ain’ go’ trade to lose him.”
“Why not?”
Herman was both obdurate and unenlightening; he seemed to love the sound of the words he had just uttered, and to consider them sufficient. “I done trade to git him,” he repeated. “Ain’ go’ trade to lose him!”
“Aw, Herman!” Penrod remonstrated.
“I done trade to git him. Ain’ go’ trade to lose him!”
“How much’ll you take?”
Herman plunged into calculations. “Well, suh, ‘at nice bode uz wuff dime; ‘at knife-blade wuff nickel— ‘at’s fifteem — an’ ‘at nice kin’lin’-wood uz wuff two cents easy. ‘At’s sevumteem. I take sevumteem cents fer ‘iss here turkle.”
“I’ll buy him,” said Penrod eagerly. “I’ll give you the seventeen cents for him.”
“You got ‘at money?” Herman was surprised; perhaps a little skeptical.
“No; but I will have when papa comes home at noon. I can get him to give it to me.” He smiled reassuringly — almost swaggeringly, in fact, and added, “Easy!”
“You kin?”
“Yes. And, look here, Herman: don’t you go and cut your ‘nitials on this turtle, Herman, because he’ll be my turtle soon as I pay you for him, and I don’t want anybody else’s ‘nitials on any turtle of mine except my own ‘nitials. You won’t cut yours on him, will you?”
“Tell you whut I do,” said Herman: “I wait till six o’clock, ‘s even’. ‘F you pay me down ‘at sevumteem cents ‘fo ‘six ‘clock’s even’, he ain’ go’ to have nuff’m ‘tall cut on him. You don’ pay me down ‘at sevumteem cents ‘fo’ no six ‘clock’s even’, I’m go’ to begin cuttin’. ‘At’s all ‘a’ way’ I’m willin’ to fix it.”
“Oh, that’s all right!” Penrod assured him. “I’ll have that seventeen cents long before any ole six o’clock. Don’t you worry!” And the contract thus comprehended by both the party of the first part and the party of the second part, Herman proceeded homeward with the property under consideration, while Penrod continued his walk in the alley. His spirits had risen decidedly. Already he felt the turtle to be virtually his own, and he had been convinced by the mere sight of it — in another boy’s possession — that a turtle is the most delightful animal in the world. He wondered why he had never owned one before, and he determined never to be without one again.
His vision roamed the future; he saw the little turtle growing year by year, the initials, P. S., growing with him. He saw the turtle following him about the yard, large, docile, obedient. He would train the turtle to do tricks; the turtle and Duke and Walter-John (borrowed) would do tricks together. He would invite a large crowd — and Marjorie Jones — to a show in the stable. He saw himself as ringmaster coming forward with Duke and Walter-John upon one side of him and the turtle upon the other. “Laydeez and gentlemun, permit me to interodoos to your attainshon — —” There was a warmth in his bosom as he walked. Already affection for this turtle was springing in the heart of Penrod Schofield.
A little before the hour for lunch, he slid over the back fence, and made his way into the house without being noticed by Ronald, who, squirt-gun in hand, was treacherously approaching Duke in the front yard. Penrod ascended to his father’s room and found both his parents there, engaged in conversation.
