umbrellas
were all that crossed his field of vision. Somewhere in the world, he
thought, there was probably a boy who lived across the street from
a jail or a fire-engine house, and had windows worth looking out of.
Penrod rubbed his nose up and down the pane slowly, continuously, and
without the slightest pleasure; and he again scratched himself wherever
it was possible to do so, though he did not even itch. There was nothing
in his life.

Such boredom as he was suffering can become agony, and an imaginative
creature may do wild things to escape it; many a grown person has taken
to drink on account of less pressure than was upon Penrod during that
intolerable Saturday.

A faint sound in his ear informed him that Della, in the kitchen, had
uttered a loud exclamation, and he decided to go back there. However,
since his former visit had resulted in a rebuff that still rankled, he
paused outside the kitchen door, which was slightly ajar, and listened.
He did this idly, and with no hope of hearing anything interesting or
helpful.

"Snakes!" Della exclaimed. "Didja say the poor man was seein' snakes,
Mrs. Cullen?"

"No, Della," Mrs. Cullen returned dolorously; "jist one. Flora says he
niver see more th'n one--jist one big, long, ugly-faced horrible black
one; the same one comin' back an' makin' a fizzin' n'ise at um iv'ry
time he had the fit on um. 'Twas alw'ys the same snake; an' he'd holler
at Flora. 'Here it comes ag'in, oh, me soul!' he'd holler. 'The big,
black, ugly-faced thing; it's as long as the front fence!' he'd holler,
'an' it's makin' a fizzin' n'ise at me, an' breathin' in me face!' he'd
holler. 'Fer th' love o' hivin', Flora,' he'd holler, 'it's got a little
black man wit' a gassly white forehead a-pokin' of it along wit' a
broom-handle, an' a-sickin' it on me, the same as a boy sicks a dog on
a poor cat. Fer the love o' hivin', Flora,' he'd holler, 'cantcha fright
it away from me before I go out o' me head?'"

"Poor Tom!" said Della with deep compassion. "An' the poor man out of
his head all the time, an' not knowin' it! 'Twas awful fer Flora to sit
there an' hear such things in the night like that!"

"You may believe yerself whin ye say it!" Mrs. Cullen agreed. "Right the
very night the poor soul died, he was hollerin' how the big black snake
and the little black man wit' the gassly white forehead a-pokin' it wit'
a broomstick had come fer um. 'Fright 'em away, Flora!' he was croakin',
in a v'ice th