anything
to tell her, because most likely they'd misunderstood something she
said--well, of course, all that does sound mixed-up and peculiar;
but they sound that way about half the time, anyhow. No; it couldn't
possibly have had a thing to do with it. They were right there at the
table with us all the time, and they came straight to the table the
minute they entered the house. Before that, they'd been over at Sam's
all afternoon. So, it COULDN'T have been the boys." Mrs. Schofield
paused to ruminate with a little air of pride; then added: "Margaret has
often thought--oh, long before this!--that she was a medium. I mean--if
she would let her self. So it wasn't anything the boys did."

Mr. Schofield grunted.

"I'll admit this much," he said. "I'll admit it wasn't anything we'll
ever get out of 'em."

And the remarks of Sam and Penrod, taking leave of each other, one on
each side of the gate, appeared to corroborate Mr. Schofield's opinion.

"Well, g'-night, Penrod," Sam said. "It was a pretty good Saturday,
wasn't it?"

"Fine!" said Penrod casually. "G'-night, Sam."

CHAPTER III. THE MILITARIST

PENROD SCHOFIELD, having been "kept-in" for the unjust period of twenty
minutes after school, emerged to a deserted street. That is, the street
was deserted so far as Penrod was concerned. Here and there people were
to be seen upon the sidewalks, but they were adults, and they and the
shade trees had about the same quality of significance in Penrod's
consciousness. Usually he saw grown people in the mass, which is to say,
they were virtually invisible to him, though exceptions must be taken in
favour of policemen, firemen, street-car conductors, motormen, and all
other men in any sort of uniform or regalia. But this afternoon none
of these met the roving eye, and Penrod set out upon his homeward way
wholly dependent upon his own resources.

To one of Penrod's inner texture, a mere unadorned walk from one
point to another was intolerable, and he had not gone a block without
achieving some slight remedy for the tameness of life. An electric-light
pole at the corner, invested with powers of observation, might have been
surprised to find itself suddenly enacting a role of dubious honour in
improvised melodrama. Penrod, approaching, gave the pole a look of sharp
suspicion, then one of conviction; slapped it lightly and contemptuously
with his open hand; passed on a few paces, but turned abruptly, and,
pointing his rig