But this afternoon
none of these met the roving eye, and Penrod set out upon his
homeward way wholly dependent upon his own resources.
To one of Penrod's inner texture, a mere unadorned walk from one
point to another was intolerable, and he had not gone a block
without achieving some slight remedy for the tameness of life. An
electric-light pole at the corner, invested with powers of
observation, might have been surprised to find itself suddenly
enacting a role of dubious honour in improvised melodrama.
Penrod, approaching, gave the pole a look of sharp suspicion,
then one of conviction; slapped it lightly and contemptuously
with his open hand; passed on a few paces, but turned abruptly,
and, pointing his right forefinger, uttered the symbolic word,
"Bing!"
The plot was somewhat indefinite; yet nothing is more certain
than that the electric-light pole had first attempted something
against him, then growing bitter when slapped, and stealing after
him to take him treacherously in the back, had got itself shot
through and through by one too old in such warfare to be caught
off his guard.
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