Schofield leaned out of an open window upstairs.
"Don't do that, Penrod," she said anxiously. "Please don't do
that."
"Why not?" Penrod asked, and, feeling encouraged by his progress
in the new art, he continued: "Gunk--gunk-gunk! Gunk-gunk--"
"Please try not to do it," she urged pleadingly. "You CAN stop it
if you try. Won't you, dear?"
But Penrod felt that he was almost upon the point of attaining a
mastery equal to Sam Williams's. He had just managed to do
something in his throat that he had never done before, and he
felt that unless he kept on doing it at this time, his new-born
facility might evade him later. "Gunk!" he croaked. "Gunk--gunk-
gunk!" And he continued to croak, persevering monotonously, his
expression indicating the depth of his preoccupation.
His mother looked down solicitously, murmured in a melancholy
undertone, shook her head; then disappeared from the window, and,
after a moment or two, opened the front door.
"Come in, dear," she said; "I've got something for you."
Penrod's look of preoccupation vanished; he brightened and ceased
to croak.
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