“Sometimes,” Mr. Schofield said, “I wish he weren't.”
“When he's himself,” Mrs. Schofield went on anxiously, “he's very quiet and good; he doesn't go climbing telegraph-poles and reckless things like that. And I noticed before I went away that he was growing twitchy, and seemed to be getting the habit of making unpleasant little noises in his throat.”
“Don't fret about that,” her husband said. “He was trying to learn Sam Williams's imitation of a bullfrog's croak. I used to do that myself when I was a boy. Gl-glump, gallump! No; I can't do it now. But nearly all boys feel obliged to learn it.”
“You're entirely mistaken, Henry,” she returned a little sharply. “That isn't the way he goes in his throat. Penrod is getting to be a VERY nervous boy, and he makes noises because he can't help it. He works part of his face, too, sometimes, so much that I've been afraid it would interfere with his looks.”
“Interfere with his what?” For the moment, Mr. Schofield seemed to be dazed.
“When he's himself,” she returned crisply, “he's quite a handsome boy.”
“He is?”
“Handsomer than the average, anyhow,” Mrs. Schofield said firmly. “No wonder you don't see it—when we've let his system get all run down like this!”
“Good heavens!” the mystified Mr. Schofield murmured. “Penrod's system hasn't been running down; it's just the same as it always was. He's absolutely all right.”
“Indeed he is not!” she said severely. “We've got to take better care of him than we have been.”