"Yay!" jeered Mr. Williams, upon whom his friend's hypocrisy was quite
wasted. "How can your mother not like her mother? Baby Rennsdale hasn't
got any mother! You and her'll be a sight!"

That was Penrod's own conviction; and with this corroboration of it
he grew so spiritless that he could offer no retort. He slid to a
despondent sitting posture upon the door sill and gazed wretchedly upon
the ground, while his companion went to replenish the licorice water at
the hydrant--enfeebling the potency of the liquor no doubt, but making
up for that in quantity.

"Your mother goin' with you to the cotillon?" asked Sam when he
returned.

"No. She's goin' to meet me there. She's goin' somewhere first."

"So's mine," said Sam. "I'll come by for you."

"All right."

"I better go before long. Noon whistles been blowin'."

"All right," Penrod repeated dully.

Sam turned to go, but paused. A new straw hat was peregrinating along
the fence near the two boys. This hat belonged to someone passing upon
the sidewalk of the cross-street; and the someone was Maurice Levy.
Even as they stared, he halted and regarded them over the fence with two
small, dark eyes.