“Well,” he murmured, “I was just—thinking.”
“Thinking what?” she asked sharply.
“I don't know.”
“That won't do!”
He took his left ankle in his right hand and regarded it helplessly.
“That won't do, Penrod Schofield,” she repeated severely. “If that is all the excuse you have to offer I shall report your case this instant!”
And she rose with fatal intent.
But Penrod was one of those whom the precipice inspires. “Well, I HAVE got an excuse.”
“Well”—she paused impatiently—“what is it?”
He had not an idea, but he felt one coming, and replied automatically, in a plaintive tone: