Delphi Complete Works of Booth Tarkington (Illustrated), page 486
“ ’Course I mean a ‘grown-up man’,” said the daring boy. “What do you think I’m talkin’ about? He hangs around, and every little while he talks to the other one. He’s got false black whiskers. There’s two of ’em.”
“You mean they both have false black whiskers, Penrod?”
“No! I didn’t say they had, did I? Who said they both —— My goodness! I said the one with false black whiskers had false black whiskers. I didn’t say the other one had. He hasn’t got any at all.”
“Well, who is this other one, then, Penrod?”
“It’s that ole Mr. Dade.”
“Who?”
“It’s that ole Dade comes to our house and sits around so much.”
“Penrod!” Marjorie cried, amazed. “Why, I know him! He comes to see papa sometimes.”
“Well, he’s the crook.”
Marjorie was utterly skeptical. “He is not!” she cried. “Papa wouldn’t let him if he was somebody ought to be in jail. He wouldn’t let him in our house. Penrod Schofield, you made all this up, yourself!”
“I did not!” Penrod cried, and he was sincerely indignant. “That’s just what crooks do. They go around and get in people’s houses, and then they steal sumpthing or else get the people to sign some ole paper and grab everything they got. I don’t care if ole Dade does come around and see your father, he’s the worst crook there is.”
“He is not!”
“He is, too! And perty soon he’ll either steal sumpthing or he’ll get your father and mother to sign some ole papers, and your father won’t have a cent left to his name.”
At last he began to make an impression. Marjorie showed signs of alarm. “Penrod!” she cried, her lovely eyes widening, her pink lips parting.
“You’ll see!”
“Penrod, do you think he’d steal papa’s money?”
“I don’t know,” Penrod said modestly, “whether he’d slip it out of his pocket or get him to sign some ole papers, but he’ll do sumpthing like that. Your father won’t have a cent left to his name if he keeps on goin’ with that ole Dade or the man with the false black whisk — —”
Penrod paused, and his jaw dropped slightly in his amazement, a tribute to one of those supreme coincidences that happen to ordinary people only four or five times in their lives. Marjorie’s father, Mr. Paoli Jones, was just entering the front gate, and by his side walked the man with the false black whiskers. Conversing seriously, the two passed along the path from the front gate to the front door — and disappeared within the house.
“My goodness!” Penrod gasped.
“What’s the matter?”
“That was him!”
“Who?” cried Marjorie. “Where was he?”
“With your father! Marjorie, that was the other crook I and Herm — I and Bill and Jim are after. It’s the one with the false black whiskers!”
Marjorie’s eyes flashed. “They are not!” she cried. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Penrod Schofield, telling such a story! They are not any such a thing false! He had typhoid fever, and when he got well, mamma coaxed him to let ’em stay on, on account of hiding his chin.”
“Do you know who it is, Marjorie?”
“I should think maybe I ought to know him!” she responded indignantly. “It’s my Uncle Montgomery.”
XIV. IMPRESSING MARJORIE
IT MAY NOT be denied that for the moment Penrod was taken aback. He rubbed his knee in silence, seeming to find an injury there; then, somewhat feebly, he inquired, “What’s his last name?”
“Whose last name?” the offended Marjorie demanded. “Papa’s?”
“No; I mean what’s the man with the — I mean what’s your uncle’s last name?”
“Jones!” she replied, with an explosiveness beyond her years.
“Well,” Penrod began uncomfortably, “well — all right.”
“I guess it is not all right, either! You got to take back all you called my Uncle Montgomery or I’ll never speak to you again.”
Penrod felt desperate. He had come, that morning, to overwhelm Marjorie, to leave her almost prostrate with admiration and, conceivably, weeping with anxiety over the dangerous life his position in the world compelled him to lead. Here was a collapse indeed — just as he had begun to diagnose symptoms of success. Vaguely he sought some means to counteract malignant fortune.
“Well, I’ll take it all back about your uncle.”
“Every last word?”
“I will about him.”
Marjorie looked at Penrod suspiciously. “Well, what won’t you take every last word back about?”
“That ole Dade,” Penrod said doggedly. “I won’t take back any about him, because we’re after him, and we’re goin’ to keep on after him — and he’s a crook!”
“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe a word of it, because look what you just said about my Uncle Mont — —”
“Marjorie,” the goaded boy burst out, “didn’t I just say I took it back about your ole Uncle Montgomery? That hasn’t got anything to do with the rest of it, has it? I guess your eyes wouldn’t stick out if I just told you a few things about that ole Dade! Oh, no!”
“Well, what about him, then, you know so much?”
“Well — —”
“I won’t believe a word of it unless you tell me!”
“Marjorie — —”
“You don’t know anything any more’n you did about Uncle Montgomery. That’s the reason you won’t tell.”
“You listen here!” the incensed Penrod began. “You just listen to me!”
“Well, I am listening.”
“You listen, Marjorie! My father said this ole Dade stole horses, and so did my mother, and I heard them say it. I guess you ain’t goin’ to claim my father and mother don’t tell the truth, are you? Anybody that calls my father and mother a liar — —”
“Penrod! Did you honestly hear your father and mother say that?”
“Yes, I did! And anybody that calls my father and moth — —”
“Penrod!” Such passionate defense of his parents’ reputation was not needed; they ranked as unquestionable authorities, and Marjorie accepted Mr. Herbert Hamilton Dade’s status as that of a horse-thief. “Penrod, it’s just terrible!” she cried.
“I know lots worse about him ‘n that,” he declared.
“Worse than stealing horses, Penrod?”
Penrod had carried his point; in spite of everything, he had succeeded in being as impressive as he had hoped to be. Nothing could have been more natural than that he should both protract and intensify the fragrant moment. Marjorie now seemed ready to believe whatever he said, and he more than half believed his ominous projections, himself. He became so mysterious that not only his mother, but a professional oculist, might have warned him to take care.
“Stealing horses isn’t much to what that gang does — when they get started once,” he said.
“Who’s the others, Penrod?” Marjorie inquired, and, with gentle urgency, she added, “You took it back about Uncle Montgomery, Penrod.”
“Well — he isn’t; but they’ll proba’ly get him to sign some ole papers or sumpthing.”
Marjorie’s eyes grew larger than ever. “Would they — would they make papa sign some, too, Penrod?”
“Well, that’s just what I told you, isn’t it? That’s the way ole crooks do. First, he’ll make your father sign the ole papers, and then proba’ly he’ll want to get married to you or sumpthing — —”
“Why, Penrod!” This was too far beyond Marjorie’s horizon; she was not allowed to attend the “movies”. “What are you talkin’ about?” she exclaimed. “Anyway, I heard mamma say that Mr. Dade wanted to get married to your sister, Margaret.”
“Well, I guess he does,” Penrod admitted; and then, recovering himself, added scornfully, “I guess I know that much, don’t I?”
“Well, you just said — —”
“Listen, can’t you, just a minute? Can’t you listen just a minute? My goodness! If he got all your father’s money and his house an’ lot, then he could come and marry Margaret, couldn’t he?”
“But you — —”
“Well, he could, couldn’t he?”
“I didn’t say he couldn’t, Penrod.”
“Well, then, listen a minute, can’t you? My good — —”
“I am listening!” Marjorie felt that there had been a definite inconsistency in Penrod’s statement; but, in a moment or two, as he went on, the inconsistency lost its definiteness, became vague, and then she forgot it altogether — and so did Penrod.
“This is the way ole Dade does, Marjorie. First, he gets somebody that drinks, or sumpthing, and gets him to help make some ole father write his name on the ole papers and then he proba’ly gets him arrested and put in jail, or else he takes and kills him — —”
“Which one, Penrod? Which one does he kill?”
He deliberated. “Well, gener’ly the one that drinks, and then he takes all the other one’s money and his house an’ lot. Well, f’r instance, supposin’ your Uncle Montgomery is the one that drinks — —”
“He does not! He doesn’t either drink, and you shan’t say — —”
“Well, I didn’t say he did, did I? My goodness, I just said — well, even if he don’t drink or anything, I bet ole Dade’ll make your father give him all his money and his house an’ lot and everything, and then where’ll you be?”
Marjorie was disturbed, but she had a reassuring thought. “Papa wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t give Uncle Montgomery — —”
“I didn’t say he’d give it to your uncle. He’d haf to give it to ole Dade. My goodness!”
“Why, papa wouldn’t give it to Mr. Dade! If he wouldn’t give it to Uncle Montgomery, he wouldn’t take and give it to — —”
“You’ll see!”
“Well, I don’t think he would, Penrod.”
“Listen here, Marjorie,” Penrod said argumentatively. “You don’t know as much as I do, do you?”
“Well, I know any way almost as much,” Marjorie returned stoutly.
“Well, almost as much isn’t as much,” said Penrod. “And you don’t know half what I know about crooks. You don’t know anything at all about ’em, and I know ‘most everything.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Well,” said Penrod, “you better look out, that’s all; and your father better look out, or, first thing he knows, there’ll be — there’ll be lots o’ trouble around here!”
His manner (that of one knowing much more than circumstances permitted him to tell) had a powerful effect upon Marjorie, who was becoming seriously alarmed. “Why, papa would go and get that bad man arrested!” she said, but without strong conviction, for it had begun to seem to her that her father was in the toils. However, she had another hopeful thought: “He’d rather have him arrested, any day, than give him his house an’ lot.”
Penrod had no verbal reply for this; yet he had talked himself into the belief that Mr. Jones was somehow inextricably ensnared by the crook, Dade, and Marjorie’s reasonable idea failed to shake him. He made some sounds of derision, and then shook his head portentously.
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Marjorie urged. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“You just wait and see, Marjorie Jones!” said Penrod gloomily.
Marjorie’s face fell; again all seemed lost. “Are you sure, Penrod?” she quavered.
“You just wait and see.”
“Pen — —” She paused, interrupted by a call from the house.
“Lunch, Marjorie! Come to the table!”
“I’m coming, Mamma.” She took a few steps toward Penrod, who was already moving in the direction of the front gate. “Penrod, do you think — —”
“You just wait and see, Marjorie Jones!”
“Oh, Penrod, please — —”
In spite of her appealing voice, he continued upon his way; and the summons from the house was repeated.
“Marjorie!”
Thereupon, Marjorie turned obediently and went into the house. Meanwhile, a feeling, undeniably to be diagnosed as one of satisfaction, became part of Penrod’s genuinely ominous forebodings on behalf of the Jones family; he was justifiably confident that Marjorie regarded him as an important person not immeasurably unlike an actual George B. Jashber. Still, he had another feeling underneath his satisfaction and his foreboding. This third feeling was less active and feebler than the two others — but it was there. And if he could have seen the excitement in Marjorie’s face as she went in to lunch with her family and her Uncle Montgomery, and if he could have read her impulses under that excitement, this relatively insignificant third feeling would certainly have become, upon the instant, the most powerful one of the three.
It consisted of a shimmering disquiet, a foggy sense of having dabbled in vast matters, of having done something — somehow — somewhere — that might bring about results upon the adult plane and far out of his range and class. It did not last long, but while it was present within him, Penrod felt a little uncomfortable.
XV. THE PURSUIT OF DADE
THAT AFTERNOON SAM Williams returned from a visit to his uncle’s farm where he had happily spent the fortnight elapsed since the beginning of the summer vacation. He had heard something there that gave him an exciting new idea for the future career of Walter-John, and, taking that still cumbersome pup with him upon a leash, he sought out his friend Penrod, thus walking straight into the arms of another of those coincidences that attend upon the adventures of people engaged in the discovery of crime and the detection of criminals. He came upon Penrod, Herman and Verman, as the three sat making up the day’s Report in the Jashberian office, though of course Sam was unaware of what thus preoccupied them, and even that they were in an office at all. He greeted them cheerfully, and, not realizing that he was intruding, began at once to explain his new idea.
“Look, Penrod!” he said. “Listen! I know sumpthing I bet you don’t know, or even Herman and Verman, either. John Carmichael told me out on my uncle’s farm where I been, and I bet none of you know anything at all about it.”
“Never mind,” Penrod said coldly. “We’re kind o’ busy now, Sam. Maybe I’ll tell you sumpthing about it some day; but not now, because Herman and Verman and I got a good deal on our hands to-day. If you want to play some game or sumpthing you better go find Georgie Bassett or Roddy Bitts or — —”
“I don’t either want to play any ole game or anything,” Sam returned, aggrieved. “John Carmichael told me sumpthing out at my uncle’s farm, and I’m goin’ to train my good ole dog to do it. When I get him trained I guess you won’t feel sick you never trained Duke like that or anything! Oh, no! I guess I and John won’t make you and Duke look cheap or anything! You won’t come around then and say, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it so I could train my dog that way, too, Sam?’ Oh, no!”
“What way?” Penrod asked scornfully. “What way would I waste all my good time and everything wantin’ to train Duke to jump through a hoop or sumpthing you’re talkin’ so much about. What way?”
“ ’Jump through a hoop’!” Sam exclaimed derisively. “This dog o’ mine isn’t goin’ to waste any time like that any more’n you would. You wait and see! Some day you’ll see me just give John Carmichael, here, one sniff of some ole crook’s shoe or his pocket-book or sumpthing, and then — oh, my! Go it, you bloodhound you!”
“What you talkin’ about?”
“Listen!” Sam said. “John Carmichael told me that over at the county-seat, near where my uncle’s farm is, the sheriff keeps a couple o’ bloodhounds. If some ole crook gets out o’ jail there or anything, they let the bloodhounds smell sumpthing that belonged to him, like his shoes or his hat or anything, and then — Whizz! those two bloodhounds go after him and catch him and pull him down! That’s just what John Carmichael said; they pull him down, John said, and then they hold him there till the sheriff comes and arrests him again. John Carmichael said there was proba’ly some bloodhound in John Carmichael, and anyhow lots of other kinds o’ dogs besides bloodhounds could be trained to go after crooks just the same as bloodhounds do. So proba’ly Duke could be trained to do it, ‘specially if we trained him along with John Carmichael. John Carmichael said he was almost sure John Carmichael had proba’ly a whole lot o’ bloodhound in him, and John Carmichael said John would learn how without any trouble at all, so if you want to — —”
“Hol’ on a minute!” It was Herman who interrupted; he looked interested but puzzled. “Whut is all ‘iss here John Cowmikles? You say John Cowmikles say John Cowmikles got bloodhoun’ in him, an’ you go on talk so all mixed up about how John Cowmikles say John Cowmikles say John Cowmikles got bloodhoun’ in him — —”
“It isn’t mixed up at all,” Sam interrupted crossly. “John Carmichael works on my uncle’s farm, and he’s the man that gave me John Carmichael, and he said I could train John Carmichael — —”
“Hol’ on a minute! My goo’niss! John Cowmikles tell you — —”
“There’s two of ’em,” Sam explained. “What’s the matter of you, Herman? Can’t you understand anything at all? Look! This dog is named John Carmichael because I named him for the other one that gave him to me. The one on the farm is a man, but this one is a dog, and both their names are John Carmichael. The man on the farm that’s named John Carmichael is a man; but this dog, here, that’s named John Carmichael is a dog, and he’s named for the — —”
“Nemmine,” Herman interrupted, for Sam seemed to intend to continue his rather laborious explanation indefinitely. “Nemmine; I know whut you mean.”
Penrod had become interested in Sam’s idea, for the addition of two perfectly trained bloodhounds to the Jashber Agency would of course increase the agency’s efficiency — at least dramatically. “Listen here, Sam,” he said, “if Walter’s got some bloodhound in him, I guess he could be trained that way, and Duke could help train him, because Duke’s a full-blooded dog. Anyhow, we were thinkin’ about lettin’ you be a member after you came home, so I guess you can join. Look, Sam!”
“You mean they both have false black whiskers, Penrod?”
“No! I didn’t say they had, did I? Who said they both —— My goodness! I said the one with false black whiskers had false black whiskers. I didn’t say the other one had. He hasn’t got any at all.”
“Well, who is this other one, then, Penrod?”
“It’s that ole Mr. Dade.”
“Who?”
“It’s that ole Dade comes to our house and sits around so much.”
“Penrod!” Marjorie cried, amazed. “Why, I know him! He comes to see papa sometimes.”
“Well, he’s the crook.”
Marjorie was utterly skeptical. “He is not!” she cried. “Papa wouldn’t let him if he was somebody ought to be in jail. He wouldn’t let him in our house. Penrod Schofield, you made all this up, yourself!”
“I did not!” Penrod cried, and he was sincerely indignant. “That’s just what crooks do. They go around and get in people’s houses, and then they steal sumpthing or else get the people to sign some ole paper and grab everything they got. I don’t care if ole Dade does come around and see your father, he’s the worst crook there is.”
“He is not!”
“He is, too! And perty soon he’ll either steal sumpthing or he’ll get your father and mother to sign some ole papers, and your father won’t have a cent left to his name.”
At last he began to make an impression. Marjorie showed signs of alarm. “Penrod!” she cried, her lovely eyes widening, her pink lips parting.
“You’ll see!”
“Penrod, do you think he’d steal papa’s money?”
“I don’t know,” Penrod said modestly, “whether he’d slip it out of his pocket or get him to sign some ole papers, but he’ll do sumpthing like that. Your father won’t have a cent left to his name if he keeps on goin’ with that ole Dade or the man with the false black whisk — —”
Penrod paused, and his jaw dropped slightly in his amazement, a tribute to one of those supreme coincidences that happen to ordinary people only four or five times in their lives. Marjorie’s father, Mr. Paoli Jones, was just entering the front gate, and by his side walked the man with the false black whiskers. Conversing seriously, the two passed along the path from the front gate to the front door — and disappeared within the house.
“My goodness!” Penrod gasped.
“What’s the matter?”
“That was him!”
“Who?” cried Marjorie. “Where was he?”
“With your father! Marjorie, that was the other crook I and Herm — I and Bill and Jim are after. It’s the one with the false black whiskers!”
Marjorie’s eyes flashed. “They are not!” she cried. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Penrod Schofield, telling such a story! They are not any such a thing false! He had typhoid fever, and when he got well, mamma coaxed him to let ’em stay on, on account of hiding his chin.”
“Do you know who it is, Marjorie?”
“I should think maybe I ought to know him!” she responded indignantly. “It’s my Uncle Montgomery.”
XIV. IMPRESSING MARJORIE
IT MAY NOT be denied that for the moment Penrod was taken aback. He rubbed his knee in silence, seeming to find an injury there; then, somewhat feebly, he inquired, “What’s his last name?”
“Whose last name?” the offended Marjorie demanded. “Papa’s?”
“No; I mean what’s the man with the — I mean what’s your uncle’s last name?”
“Jones!” she replied, with an explosiveness beyond her years.
“Well,” Penrod began uncomfortably, “well — all right.”
“I guess it is not all right, either! You got to take back all you called my Uncle Montgomery or I’ll never speak to you again.”
Penrod felt desperate. He had come, that morning, to overwhelm Marjorie, to leave her almost prostrate with admiration and, conceivably, weeping with anxiety over the dangerous life his position in the world compelled him to lead. Here was a collapse indeed — just as he had begun to diagnose symptoms of success. Vaguely he sought some means to counteract malignant fortune.
“Well, I’ll take it all back about your uncle.”
“Every last word?”
“I will about him.”
Marjorie looked at Penrod suspiciously. “Well, what won’t you take every last word back about?”
“That ole Dade,” Penrod said doggedly. “I won’t take back any about him, because we’re after him, and we’re goin’ to keep on after him — and he’s a crook!”
“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe a word of it, because look what you just said about my Uncle Mont — —”
“Marjorie,” the goaded boy burst out, “didn’t I just say I took it back about your ole Uncle Montgomery? That hasn’t got anything to do with the rest of it, has it? I guess your eyes wouldn’t stick out if I just told you a few things about that ole Dade! Oh, no!”
“Well, what about him, then, you know so much?”
“Well — —”
“I won’t believe a word of it unless you tell me!”
“Marjorie — —”
“You don’t know anything any more’n you did about Uncle Montgomery. That’s the reason you won’t tell.”
“You listen here!” the incensed Penrod began. “You just listen to me!”
“Well, I am listening.”
“You listen, Marjorie! My father said this ole Dade stole horses, and so did my mother, and I heard them say it. I guess you ain’t goin’ to claim my father and mother don’t tell the truth, are you? Anybody that calls my father and mother a liar — —”
“Penrod! Did you honestly hear your father and mother say that?”
“Yes, I did! And anybody that calls my father and moth — —”
“Penrod!” Such passionate defense of his parents’ reputation was not needed; they ranked as unquestionable authorities, and Marjorie accepted Mr. Herbert Hamilton Dade’s status as that of a horse-thief. “Penrod, it’s just terrible!” she cried.
“I know lots worse about him ‘n that,” he declared.
“Worse than stealing horses, Penrod?”
Penrod had carried his point; in spite of everything, he had succeeded in being as impressive as he had hoped to be. Nothing could have been more natural than that he should both protract and intensify the fragrant moment. Marjorie now seemed ready to believe whatever he said, and he more than half believed his ominous projections, himself. He became so mysterious that not only his mother, but a professional oculist, might have warned him to take care.
“Stealing horses isn’t much to what that gang does — when they get started once,” he said.
“Who’s the others, Penrod?” Marjorie inquired, and, with gentle urgency, she added, “You took it back about Uncle Montgomery, Penrod.”
“Well — he isn’t; but they’ll proba’ly get him to sign some ole papers or sumpthing.”
Marjorie’s eyes grew larger than ever. “Would they — would they make papa sign some, too, Penrod?”
“Well, that’s just what I told you, isn’t it? That’s the way ole crooks do. First, he’ll make your father sign the ole papers, and then proba’ly he’ll want to get married to you or sumpthing — —”
“Why, Penrod!” This was too far beyond Marjorie’s horizon; she was not allowed to attend the “movies”. “What are you talkin’ about?” she exclaimed. “Anyway, I heard mamma say that Mr. Dade wanted to get married to your sister, Margaret.”
“Well, I guess he does,” Penrod admitted; and then, recovering himself, added scornfully, “I guess I know that much, don’t I?”
“Well, you just said — —”
“Listen, can’t you, just a minute? Can’t you listen just a minute? My goodness! If he got all your father’s money and his house an’ lot, then he could come and marry Margaret, couldn’t he?”
“But you — —”
“Well, he could, couldn’t he?”
“I didn’t say he couldn’t, Penrod.”
“Well, then, listen a minute, can’t you? My good — —”
“I am listening!” Marjorie felt that there had been a definite inconsistency in Penrod’s statement; but, in a moment or two, as he went on, the inconsistency lost its definiteness, became vague, and then she forgot it altogether — and so did Penrod.
“This is the way ole Dade does, Marjorie. First, he gets somebody that drinks, or sumpthing, and gets him to help make some ole father write his name on the ole papers and then he proba’ly gets him arrested and put in jail, or else he takes and kills him — —”
“Which one, Penrod? Which one does he kill?”
He deliberated. “Well, gener’ly the one that drinks, and then he takes all the other one’s money and his house an’ lot. Well, f’r instance, supposin’ your Uncle Montgomery is the one that drinks — —”
“He does not! He doesn’t either drink, and you shan’t say — —”
“Well, I didn’t say he did, did I? My goodness, I just said — well, even if he don’t drink or anything, I bet ole Dade’ll make your father give him all his money and his house an’ lot and everything, and then where’ll you be?”
Marjorie was disturbed, but she had a reassuring thought. “Papa wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t give Uncle Montgomery — —”
“I didn’t say he’d give it to your uncle. He’d haf to give it to ole Dade. My goodness!”
“Why, papa wouldn’t give it to Mr. Dade! If he wouldn’t give it to Uncle Montgomery, he wouldn’t take and give it to — —”
“You’ll see!”
“Well, I don’t think he would, Penrod.”
“Listen here, Marjorie,” Penrod said argumentatively. “You don’t know as much as I do, do you?”
“Well, I know any way almost as much,” Marjorie returned stoutly.
“Well, almost as much isn’t as much,” said Penrod. “And you don’t know half what I know about crooks. You don’t know anything at all about ’em, and I know ‘most everything.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Well,” said Penrod, “you better look out, that’s all; and your father better look out, or, first thing he knows, there’ll be — there’ll be lots o’ trouble around here!”
His manner (that of one knowing much more than circumstances permitted him to tell) had a powerful effect upon Marjorie, who was becoming seriously alarmed. “Why, papa would go and get that bad man arrested!” she said, but without strong conviction, for it had begun to seem to her that her father was in the toils. However, she had another hopeful thought: “He’d rather have him arrested, any day, than give him his house an’ lot.”
Penrod had no verbal reply for this; yet he had talked himself into the belief that Mr. Jones was somehow inextricably ensnared by the crook, Dade, and Marjorie’s reasonable idea failed to shake him. He made some sounds of derision, and then shook his head portentously.
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Marjorie urged. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“You just wait and see, Marjorie Jones!” said Penrod gloomily.
Marjorie’s face fell; again all seemed lost. “Are you sure, Penrod?” she quavered.
“You just wait and see.”
“Pen — —” She paused, interrupted by a call from the house.
“Lunch, Marjorie! Come to the table!”
“I’m coming, Mamma.” She took a few steps toward Penrod, who was already moving in the direction of the front gate. “Penrod, do you think — —”
“You just wait and see, Marjorie Jones!”
“Oh, Penrod, please — —”
In spite of her appealing voice, he continued upon his way; and the summons from the house was repeated.
“Marjorie!”
Thereupon, Marjorie turned obediently and went into the house. Meanwhile, a feeling, undeniably to be diagnosed as one of satisfaction, became part of Penrod’s genuinely ominous forebodings on behalf of the Jones family; he was justifiably confident that Marjorie regarded him as an important person not immeasurably unlike an actual George B. Jashber. Still, he had another feeling underneath his satisfaction and his foreboding. This third feeling was less active and feebler than the two others — but it was there. And if he could have seen the excitement in Marjorie’s face as she went in to lunch with her family and her Uncle Montgomery, and if he could have read her impulses under that excitement, this relatively insignificant third feeling would certainly have become, upon the instant, the most powerful one of the three.
It consisted of a shimmering disquiet, a foggy sense of having dabbled in vast matters, of having done something — somehow — somewhere — that might bring about results upon the adult plane and far out of his range and class. It did not last long, but while it was present within him, Penrod felt a little uncomfortable.
XV. THE PURSUIT OF DADE
THAT AFTERNOON SAM Williams returned from a visit to his uncle’s farm where he had happily spent the fortnight elapsed since the beginning of the summer vacation. He had heard something there that gave him an exciting new idea for the future career of Walter-John, and, taking that still cumbersome pup with him upon a leash, he sought out his friend Penrod, thus walking straight into the arms of another of those coincidences that attend upon the adventures of people engaged in the discovery of crime and the detection of criminals. He came upon Penrod, Herman and Verman, as the three sat making up the day’s Report in the Jashberian office, though of course Sam was unaware of what thus preoccupied them, and even that they were in an office at all. He greeted them cheerfully, and, not realizing that he was intruding, began at once to explain his new idea.
“Look, Penrod!” he said. “Listen! I know sumpthing I bet you don’t know, or even Herman and Verman, either. John Carmichael told me out on my uncle’s farm where I been, and I bet none of you know anything at all about it.”
“Never mind,” Penrod said coldly. “We’re kind o’ busy now, Sam. Maybe I’ll tell you sumpthing about it some day; but not now, because Herman and Verman and I got a good deal on our hands to-day. If you want to play some game or sumpthing you better go find Georgie Bassett or Roddy Bitts or — —”
“I don’t either want to play any ole game or anything,” Sam returned, aggrieved. “John Carmichael told me sumpthing out at my uncle’s farm, and I’m goin’ to train my good ole dog to do it. When I get him trained I guess you won’t feel sick you never trained Duke like that or anything! Oh, no! I guess I and John won’t make you and Duke look cheap or anything! You won’t come around then and say, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about it so I could train my dog that way, too, Sam?’ Oh, no!”
“What way?” Penrod asked scornfully. “What way would I waste all my good time and everything wantin’ to train Duke to jump through a hoop or sumpthing you’re talkin’ so much about. What way?”
“ ’Jump through a hoop’!” Sam exclaimed derisively. “This dog o’ mine isn’t goin’ to waste any time like that any more’n you would. You wait and see! Some day you’ll see me just give John Carmichael, here, one sniff of some ole crook’s shoe or his pocket-book or sumpthing, and then — oh, my! Go it, you bloodhound you!”
“What you talkin’ about?”
“Listen!” Sam said. “John Carmichael told me that over at the county-seat, near where my uncle’s farm is, the sheriff keeps a couple o’ bloodhounds. If some ole crook gets out o’ jail there or anything, they let the bloodhounds smell sumpthing that belonged to him, like his shoes or his hat or anything, and then — Whizz! those two bloodhounds go after him and catch him and pull him down! That’s just what John Carmichael said; they pull him down, John said, and then they hold him there till the sheriff comes and arrests him again. John Carmichael said there was proba’ly some bloodhound in John Carmichael, and anyhow lots of other kinds o’ dogs besides bloodhounds could be trained to go after crooks just the same as bloodhounds do. So proba’ly Duke could be trained to do it, ‘specially if we trained him along with John Carmichael. John Carmichael said he was almost sure John Carmichael had proba’ly a whole lot o’ bloodhound in him, and John Carmichael said John would learn how without any trouble at all, so if you want to — —”
“Hol’ on a minute!” It was Herman who interrupted; he looked interested but puzzled. “Whut is all ‘iss here John Cowmikles? You say John Cowmikles say John Cowmikles got bloodhoun’ in him, an’ you go on talk so all mixed up about how John Cowmikles say John Cowmikles say John Cowmikles got bloodhoun’ in him — —”
“It isn’t mixed up at all,” Sam interrupted crossly. “John Carmichael works on my uncle’s farm, and he’s the man that gave me John Carmichael, and he said I could train John Carmichael — —”
“Hol’ on a minute! My goo’niss! John Cowmikles tell you — —”
“There’s two of ’em,” Sam explained. “What’s the matter of you, Herman? Can’t you understand anything at all? Look! This dog is named John Carmichael because I named him for the other one that gave him to me. The one on the farm is a man, but this one is a dog, and both their names are John Carmichael. The man on the farm that’s named John Carmichael is a man; but this dog, here, that’s named John Carmichael is a dog, and he’s named for the — —”
“Nemmine,” Herman interrupted, for Sam seemed to intend to continue his rather laborious explanation indefinitely. “Nemmine; I know whut you mean.”
Penrod had become interested in Sam’s idea, for the addition of two perfectly trained bloodhounds to the Jashber Agency would of course increase the agency’s efficiency — at least dramatically. “Listen here, Sam,” he said, “if Walter’s got some bloodhound in him, I guess he could be trained that way, and Duke could help train him, because Duke’s a full-blooded dog. Anyhow, we were thinkin’ about lettin’ you be a member after you came home, so I guess you can join. Look, Sam!”
