“Ma'am?”
“Nothing. I see that you're twelve years old, that's all. There are more cookies, Penrod.” She went away, returning with a fresh supply and the observation, “Of course, you'll be sick before the day's over; you might as well get a good start.”
Mrs. Schofield looked thoughtful. “Aunt Sarah,” she ventured, “don't you really think we improve as we get older?”
“Meaning,” said the old lady, “that Penrod hasn't much chance to escape the penitentiary if he doesn't? Well, we do learn to restrain ourselves in some things; and there are people who really want someone else to take the last cookie, though they aren't very common. But it's all right, the world seems to be getting on.” She gazed whimsically upon her great-nephew and added, “Of course, when you watch a boy and think about him, it doesn't seem to be getting on very fast.”
Penrod moved uneasily in his chair; he was conscious that he was her topic but unable to make out whether or not her observations were complimentary; he inclined to think they were not. Mrs. Crim settled the question for him.
“I suppose Penrod is regarded as the neighbourhood curse?”
“Oh, no,” cried Mrs. Schofield. “He——”
“I dare say the neighbours are right,” continued the old lady placidly. “He's had to repeat the history of the race and go through all the stages from the primordial to barbarism. You don't expect boys to be civilized, do you?”
“Well, I——”
“You might as well expect eggs to crow. No; you've got to take boys as they are, and learn to know them as they are.”