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.”
He felt himself suffocating in a coil against which no struggle availed.
“But I never DID it!” he wailed, helplessly. “I never did anything at all!”