The outer world grew vaguer; voices seemed
to drone at a distance; sluggish time passed heavily--but some of
it did pass.
"Penrod!"
Miss Spence's searching eye had taken note of the bent head and
the twisting button. She found it necessary to speak again.
"Penrod Schofield!"
He came languidly to life.
"Ma'am?"
"You may read your letter."
"Yes'm."
And he began to paw clumsily among his books, whereupon Miss
Spence's glance fired with suspicion.
"Have you prepared one?" she demanded.
"Yes'm," said Penrod dreamily.
"But you're going to find you forgot to bring it, aren't you?"
"I got it," said Penrod, discovering the paper in his "Principles
of English Composition."
"Well, we'll listen to what you've found time to prepare," she
said, adding coldly, "for once!"
The frankest pessimism concerning Penrod permeated the whole
room; even the eyes of those whose letters had not met with
favour turned upon him with obvious assurance that here was every
prospect of a performance that would, by comparison, lend a
measure of credit to the worst preceding it.
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