"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?"
"Who else could I mean?" She sat up, exasperated, to stare at him. "Henry Passloe Scho-
