One film made a lasting impression upon him. It depicted with relentless
pathos the drunkard's progress; beginning with his conversion to beer
in the company of loose travelling men; pursuing him through an
inexplicable lapse into evening clothes and the society of some
remarkably painful ladies, next, exhibiting the effects of alcohol on
the victim's domestic disposition, the unfortunate man was seen in the
act of striking his wife and, subsequently, his pleading baby daughter
with an abnormally heavy walking-stick. Their flight--through the
snow--to seek the protection of a relative was shown, and finally, the
drunkard's picturesque behaviour at the portals of a madhouse.

So fascinated was Penrod that he postponed his departure until this film
came round again, by which time he had finished his unnatural repast
and almost, but not quite, decided against following the profession of a
drunkard when he grew up.

Emerging, satiated, from the theatre, a public timepiece before a
jeweller's shop confronted him with an unexpected dial and imminent
perplexities. How was he to explain at home these hours of dalliance?
There was a steadfast rule that he return direct from Sunday-school; and
Sunday rules were important, because on that day there was his father,
always at home and at hand, perilously ready for action. One of the
hardest conditions of boyhood is the almost continuous strain put upon
the powers of invention by the constant and harassing necessity for
explanations of every natural act.

Proceeding homeward through the deepening twilight as rapidly as
possible, at a gait half skip and half canter, Penrod made up his mind
in what manner he would account for his long delay, and, as he drew
nearer, rehearsed in words the opening passage of his defence.