Stooping, Mr. Schofield discovered his son squatting under the piano,
near an open window--his wistful Duke lying beside him.

"What are you doing there?"

"Me?"

"Why under the piano?"

"Well," the boy returned, with grave sweetness, "I was just kind of
sitting here--thinking."

"All right." Mr. Schofield, rather touched, returned to the digestion of
a murder, his back once more to the piano; and Penrod silently drew
from beneath his jacket (where he had slipped it simultaneously with
the sneeze) a paper-backed volume entitled: "Slimsy, the Sioux City
Squealer, or, 'Not Guilty, Your Honor.'"

In this manner the reading-club continued in peace, absorbed, contented,
the world well forgot--until a sudden, violently irritated slam-bang of
the front door startled the members; and Mrs. Schofield burst into the
room and threw herself into a chair, moaning.

"What's the matter, mamma?" asked her husband laying aside his paper.

"Henry Passloe Schofield," returned the lady, "I don't know what IS to
be done with that boy; I do NOT!"

"You mean Penrod?"