And Penrod remembered that, on the last evening before Mr. Robert Williams's departure for college, Margaret had been peevish because Penrod had genially spent the greater portion of the evening with Robert and herself upon the porch. Margaret made it clear, later, that she strongly preferred to conduct her conversations with friends unassisted--and as Penrod listened to the faltering words of Mr. Claude Blakely, he felt instinctively that, in a certain contingency, Margaret's indignation would be even more severe to-day than on the former occasion.
Mr. Blakely coughed faintly and was able to continue.
"I mean to say that when I say that what Tennyson says--ah--seems to--to apply to--to a feeling about you--"
At this point, finding too little breath in himself to proceed, ir spite of the fact that he had spoken in an almost inaudible tone, Mr. Blakely stopped again.
Something about this little scene was ****** a deep impression upon Penrod. What that impression was, he could not possibly have stated; but he had a sense of the imminence of a tender crisis, and he perceived that the piquancy of affairs in the library had reached a point which would brand an intentional interruption as the act of a cold-blooded ruffian. Suddenly it was as though a strong light shone upon him: he decided that it was Mr. Blakely who had told Margaret that her eyes were like blue stars in heaven--THIS was the person who had caused the hateful letter to be written! That decided Penrod; his inspiration, so long waited for, had come.
"I--I feel that perhaps I am not plain," said Mr. Blakely, and immediately became red, whereas he had been pale. He was at least modest enough about his looks to fear that Margaret might think he had referred to them. "I mean, not plain in another sense--that is, I mean not that _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 interest.
"Why, Duke's a little dog!" Margaret intervened. "Of COURSE, if it was little, it must have been Duke."
"It WAS little," said Mr. Blakely too enthusiastically. "It was a little bit of a dog. I noticed it because it was so little."
"Couldn't 'a' been Duke, then," said Penrod. "Duke's a kind of a middle-sized dog." He yawned, and added: "I don't want him now. I want to stay in the house this afternoon, anyway. And it's better for Duke to be out in the fresh air."
Mr. Blakely coughed again and sat down, finding little to say. It was evident, also, that Margaret shared his perplexity; and another silence became so embarrassing that Penrod broke it.
"I was out in the sawdust-box," he said, "but it got kind of chilly." Neither of his auditors felt called upon to offer any comment, and presently he added, "I thought I better come in here where it's warmer."
"It's too warm,"' said Margaret, at once. "Mr. Blakely, would you mind opening a window?"
"By all means!" the young man responded earnestly, as he rose.
"Maybe I'd better open two?"
"Yes," said Margaret; "that would be much better."
But Penrod watched Mr. Blakely open two windows to their widest, and betrayed no anxiety. His remarks upon the relative temperatures of the sawdust-box and the library had been made merely for the sake of creating sound in a silent place. When the windows had been open for several minutes, Penrod's placidity, though gloomy, denoted anything but discomfort from the draft, which was powerful, the day being windy.
It was Mr. Blakely's turn to break a silence, and he did it so unexpectedly that Margaret started. He sneezed.
"Perhaps--" Margaret began, but paused apprehensively.
