ng
to secure the future. Consequently, the apprehensive Sam and the
unfortunate Penrod (with the monstrous implement bulking against his
ribs) walked out of the room and down the stairs, their countenances
indicating an interior condition of solemnity. And a curious shade of
behaviour might have here interested a criminologist. Penrod endeavoured
to keep as close to Sam as possible, like a lonely person seeking
company, while, on the other hand, Sam kept moving away from Penrod,
seeming to desire an appearance of aloofness.

"Go into the library, boys," said Mrs. Williams, as the three reached
the foot of the stairs. "I'll bring you your cookies. Papa's in there."

Under her eye the two entered the library, to find Mr. Williams reading
his evening paper. He looked up pleasantly, but it seemed to Penrod that
he had an ominous and penetrating expression.

"What have you been up to, you boys?" inquired this enemy.

"Nothing," said Sam. "Different things."

"What like?"

"Oh--just different things."

Mr. Williams nodded; then his glance rested casually upon Penrod.

"What's the matter with your arm, Penrod?"

Penrod became paler, and Sam withdrew from him almost conspicuously.

"Sir?"

"I said, What's the matter with your arm?"

"Which one?" Penrod quavered.

"Your left. You seem to be holding it at an unnatural position. Have you
hurt it?"

Penrod swallowed. "Yes, sir. A boy bit me--I mean a dog--a dog bit me."

Mr. Williams murmured sympathetically: "That's too bad! Where did he
bite you?"

"On the--right on the elbow."

"Good gracious! Perhaps you ought to have it cauterized."

"Sir?"

"Did you have a doctor look at it?"

"No, sir. My mother put some stuff from the drug store on it."

"Oh, I see. Probably it's all right, then."

"Yes, sir." Penrod drew breath more freely, and accepted the warm cookie
Mrs. Williams brought him. He ate it without relish.

"You can have only one apiece," she said. "It's too near dinner-time.
You needn't beg for any more, because you can't have 'em."

They were good about that; they were in no frame of digestion for
cookies.

"Was it your own dog that bit you?" Mr. Williams inquired.

"Sir? No, sir. It wasn't Duke."

"Penrod!" Mrs. Williams exclaimed. "When did it happen?"

"I don't remember just when," he answered feebly. "I guess it was day
before yesterday."

"Gracious! How did it--"

"He--he just came up and bit me."

"Why, that's terrible! It