“Why under the piano?”
“Well,” the boy returned, with grave sweetness, “I was just kind of sitting here—thinking.”
“All right.” Mr. Schofield, rather touched, returned to the digestion of a murder, his back once more to the piano; and Penrod silently drew from beneath his jacket (where he had slipped it simultaneously with the sneeze) a paper-backed volume entitled: “Slimsy, the Sioux City Squealer, or, 'Not Guilty, Your Honor.'”
In this manner the reading-club continued in peace, absorbed, contented, the world well forgot—until a sudden, violently irritated slam-bang of the front door startled the members; and Mrs. Schofield burst into the room and threw herself into a chair, moaning.
“What's the matter, mamma?” asked her husband laying aside his paper.
“Henry Passloe Schofield,” returned the lady, “I don't know what IS to be done with that boy; I do NOT!”
“You mean Penrod?”
“Who else could I mean?” She sat up, exasperated, to stare at him. “Henry Passloe Schofield, you've got to take this matter in your hands—it's beyond me!”
“Well, what has he——”
“Last night I got to thinking,” she began rapidly, “about what Clara told us—thank Heaven she and Margaret and little Clara have gone to tea at Cousin Charlotte's!—but they'll be home soon—about what she said about Miss Spence——”