“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!”