“Why, how could—”
“I know what I'm talking about,” she interrupted. “Penrod is anything but a strong boy, and it's all our fault. We haven't been watchful enough of his health; that's what's the matter with him and makes him so nervous.”
Thus she continued, and, as she talked on, Mr. Schofield began, by imperceptible processes, to adopt her views. As for Mrs. Schofield herself, these views became substantial by becoming vocal. This is to say, with all deference, that as soon as she heard herself stating them she was convinced that they accurately represented facts. And the determined look in her eyes deepened when the “deepoe hack” turned the familiar corner and she saw Penrod running to the gate, followed by Duke.
Never had Penrod been so glad to greet his mother. Never was he more boisterous in the expression of happiness of that kind. And the tokens of his appetite at dinner, a little later, were extraordinary. Mr. Schofield began to feel reassured in spite of himself; but Mrs. Schofield shook her head.
“Don't you see? It's abnormal!” she said, in a low, decisive voice.
That night Penrod awoke from a sweet, conscienceless slumber—or, rather, he was awakened. A wrappered form lurked over him in the gloom.
“Uff—ow—” he muttered, and turned his face from the dim light that shone through the doorway. He sighed and sought the depths of sleep again.
“Penrod,” his mother said softly, and, while he resisted feebly, she turned him over to face her.
“Gawn lea' me 'lone,” he muttered.
Then, as a little sphere touched his lips, he jerked his head away, startled.