The early shades of autumn evening were falling when Penrod
emerged from the stable; and a better light might have disclosed
to a shrewd eye some indications that here was a boy who had been
extremely, if temporarily, ill. He went to the cistern, and,
after a cautious glance round the reassuring horizon, lifted the
iron cover. Then he took from the inner pocket of his jacket an
object which he dropped listlessly into the water: it was a bit
of wood, whittled to the likeness of a pistol. And though his
lips moved not, nor any sound issued from his vocal organs, yet
were words formed. They were so deep in the person of Penrod they
came almost from the slowly convalescing profundities of his
stomach. These words concerned firearms, and they were:
"Wish I'd never seen one! Never want to see one again!"
Of course Penrod had no way of knowing that, as regards bingism
in general, several of the most distinguished old gentlemen in
Europe were at that very moment in exactly the same state of
mind.
CHAPTER V. THE IN-OR-IN
Georgie Bassett was a boy set apart.
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