_I_ am not plain in saying what I mean to you--I mean, what you mean to
ME! I feel--"

This was the moment selected by Penrod. He walked carelessly into the
library, inquiring in a loud, bluff voice:

"Has anybody seen my dog around here anywheres?"

Mr. Blakely had inclined himself so far toward Margaret, and he was
sitting so near the edge of the chair, that only a really wonderful bit
of instinctive gymnastics landed him upon his feet instead of upon his
back. As for Margaret, she said, "Good gracious!" and regarded Penrod
blankly.

"Well," said Penrod breezily, "I guess it's no use lookin' for him--he
isn't anywheres around. I guess I'll sit down." Herewith, he sank into
an easy chair, and remarked, as in comfortable explanation, "I'm kind of
tired standin' up, anyway."

Even in this crisis, Margaret was a credit to her mother's training.

"Penrod, have you met Mr. Blakely?"

"What?"

Margaret primly performed the rite.

"Mr. Blakely, this is my little brother Penrod."

Mr. Blakely was understood to murmur, "How d'ye do?"

"I'm well," said Penrod.

Margaret bent a perplexed gaze upon him, and he saw that she had not
divined his intentions, though the expression of Mr. Blakely was already
beginning to be a little compensation for the ammonia outrage. Then,
as the protracted silence which followed the introduction began to be a
severe strain upon all parties, Penrod felt called upon to relieve it.

"I didn't have anything much to do this afternoon, anyway," he said. And
at that there leaped a spark in Margaret's eye; her expression became
severe.

"You should have gone to Sunday-school," she told him crisply.

"Well, I didn't!" said Penrod, with a bitterness so significant of
sufferings connected with religion, ammonia, and herself, that Margaret,
after giving him a thoughtful look, concluded not to urge the point.

Mr. Blakely smiled pleasantly. "I was looking out of the window a minute
ago," he said, "and I saw a dog run across the street and turn the
corner."

"What kind of a lookin' dog was it?" Penrod inquired, with languor.

"Well," said Mr. Blakely, "it was a--it was a nice-looking dog."

"What colour was he?"

"He was--ah--white. That is, I think--"

"It wasn't Duke," said Penrod. "Duke's kind of brownish-gray-like."

Mr. Blakely brightened.

"Yes, that was it," he said. "This dog I saw first had another dog with
him--a brownish-gray dog."

"Little or big?" Penrod asked, without