gton!" for
preoccupation with the enemy outweighed attention to the details of
theatrical consistency, though the steed's varying names were at least
harmoniously masculine, since a boy, in these creative moments, never
rides a mare. And having brought Charlie or Mike or Washington to a
standstill, Penrod would draw the sure weapon from its holster
and--"Bing! Bing! Bing!"--let them have it.

It is not to be understood that this was a noisy performance, or even an
obvious one. It attracted no attention from any pedestrian, and it was
to be perceived only that a boy was proceeding up the street at a
somewhat irregular gait. Three or four years earlier, when Penrod was
seven or eight, he would have shouted "Bing!" at the top of his voice;
he would have galloped openly; all the world might have seen that he
bestrode a charger. But a change had come upon him with advancing years.
Although the grown people in sight were indeed to him as walking trees,
his dramas were accomplished principally by suggestion and symbol. His
"Whoas" and "Bings" were delivered in a husky whisper, and his
equestrianism was established by action mostly of the mind, the
accompanying artistry of the feet being unintelligible to the passerby.

And yet, though he concealed from observation the stirring little scenes
he thus enacted, a love of realism was increasing within him. Early
childhood is not fastidious about the accessories of its drama--a cane
is vividly a gun which may instantly, as vividly, become a horse; but at
Penrod's time of life the lath sword is no longer satisfactory. Indeed,
he now had a vague sense that weapons of wood were unworthy to the point
of being contemptible and ridiculous, and he employed them only when he
was alone and unseen. For months a yearning had grown more and more
poignant in his vitals, and this yearning was symbolized by one of his
most profound secrets. In the inner pocket of his jacket he carried a
bit of wood whittled into the distant likeness of a pistol, but not even
Sam Williams had seen it. The wooden pistol never knew the light of day,
save when Penrod was in solitude; and yet it never left his side except
at night, when it was placed under his pillow. Still, it did not
satisfy; it was but the token of his yearning and his dream. With all
his might and main Penrod longed for one thing beyond all others. He
wanted a Real Pistol!

That was natural. Pictures of real pistols being used to magnificently
r