"I'll SHOW you!" bellowed Penrod, recovering his breath; and he hurled a fat ball--thoughtfully retained in hand throughout his agony--to such effect that his interrogator disappeared backward from the fence without having taken any initiative of his own in the matter. His comrade impulsively joined him upon the ground, and the battle continued.
Through the gathering dusk it went on. It waged but the hotter as darkness made aim more difficult--and still Penrod would not be driven from the field. Panting, grunting, hoarse from returning insults, fighting on and on, an indistinguishable figure in the gloom, he held the back alley against all comers.
For such a combat darkness has one great advantage; but it has an equally important disadvantage--the combatant cannot see to aim; on the other hand, he cannot see to dodge. And all the while Penrod was receiving two for one. He became heavy with mud.
Plastered, impressionistic and sculpturesque, there was about him a quality of the tragic, of the magnificent. He resembled a sombre masterpiece by Rodin. No one could have been quite sure what he was meant for.
Dinner bells tinkled in houses. Then they were rung from kitchen doors. Calling voices came urging from the distance, calling boys' names into the darkness. They called and a note of irritation seemed to mar their beauty.
Then bells were rung again--and the voices renewed appeals more urgent, much more irritated. They called and called and called.
THUD! went the mud balls.
Thud! Thud! Blunk!
"OOF!" said Penrod.
. . . Sam Williams, having dined with his family at their usual hour, seven, slipped unostentatiously out of the kitchen door, as soon as he could, after the conclusion of the meal, and quietly betook himself to the Schofields' corner.
Here he stationed himself where he could see all avenues of approach to the house, and waited. Twenty minutes went by, and then Sam became suddenly alert and attentive, for the arc-light revealed a small, grotesque figure slowly approaching along the sidewalk. It was brown in colour, shaggy and indefinite in form; it limped excessively, and paused to rub itself, and to meditate.
Peculiar as the thing was, Sam had no doubt as to its identity.
He advanced.
"'Lo, Penrod," he said cautiously, and with a shade of formality.
Penrod leaned against the fence, and, lifting one leg, tested the knee-joint by swinging his foot back and forth, a process evidently provocative of a little pain. Then he rubbed the left side of his encrusted face, and, opening his mouth to its whole capacity as an aperture, moved his lower jaw slightly from side to side, thus triumphantly settling a question in his own mind as to whether or no a suspected dislocation had taken place.
Having satisfied himself on these points, he examined both shins delicately by the sense of touch, and carefully tested the capacities of his neck-muscles to move his head in a wonted manner. Then he responded somewhat gruffly: "'Lo!" "Where you been?" Sam said eagerly, his formality vanishing.
"Havin' a mud-fight."
"I guess you did!" Sam exclaimed, in a low voice. "What you goin' to tell your--"
"Oh, nothin'."
"Your sister telephoned to our house to see if I knew where you were," said Sam. "She told me if I saw you before you got home to tell you sumpthing; but not to say anything about it. She said Miss Spence had telephoned to her, but she said for me to tell you it was all right about that letter, and she wasn't goin' to tell your mother and father on you, so you needn't say anything about it to 'em."
"All right," said Penrod indifferently.
"She says you're goin' to be in enough trouble without that," Sam went on. "You're goin' to catch fits about your Uncle Slocum's hat, Penrod."
"Well, I guess I know it."
"And about not comin' home to dinner, too. Your mother telephoned twice to Mamma while we were eatin' to see if you'd come in our house. And when they SEE you--MY, but you're goin' to get the DICKENS, Penrod!"
Penrod seemed unimpressed, though he was well aware that Sam's prophecy was no unreasonable one.
"Well, I guess I know it," he repeated casually. And he moved slowly toward his own gate.
His friend looked after him curiously--then, as the limping figure fumbled clumsil.y with bruised fingers at the latch of the gate, there sounded a little solicitude in Sam's voice.
"Say, Penrod, how--how do you feel?"
"What?"
"Do you feel pretty bad?"
"No," said Penrod, and, in spite of what awaited him beyond the lighted portals just ahead, he spoke the truth. His nerves were rested, and his soul was at peace. His Wednesday madness was over.
"No," said Penrod; "I feel bully!"
