a ghastly assumption of languid indifference; while his gaze, in the
effort to escape the marble-hearted glare of his schoolmates, affixed
itself with apparent permanence to the waistcoat button of James Russell
Lowell just above the "U" in "Russell."

Classes came and classes went, grilling him with eyes. Newcomers
received the story of the crime in darkling whispers; and the outcast
sat and sat and sat, and squirmed and squirmed and squirmed. (He did one
or two things with his spine which a professional contortionist would
have observed with real interest.) And all this while of freezing
suspense was but the criminal's detention awaiting trial. A known
punishment may be anticipated with some measure of equanimity; at least,
the prisoner may prepare himself to undergo it; but the unknown looms
more monstrous for every attempt to guess it. Penrod's crime was unique;
there were no rules to aid him in estimating the vengeance to fall upon
him for it. What seemed most probable was that he would be expelled from
the schools in the presence of his family, the mayor, and council, and
afterward whipped by his father upon the State House steps, with the
entire city as audience by invitation of the authorities.

Noon came. The rows of children filed out, every head turning for a last
unpleasingly speculative look at the outlaw. Then Miss Spence closed the
door into the cloakroom and that into the big hall, and came and sat at
her desk, near Penrod. The tramping of feet outside, the shrill calls
and shouting and the changing voices of the older boys ceased to be
heard--and there was silence. Penrod, still affecting to be occupied
with Lowell, was conscious that Miss Spence looked at him intently.

"Penrod," she said gravely, "what excuse have you to offer before I
report your case to the principal?"