And all the while
Penrod was receiving two for one. He became heavy with mud.
Plastered, impressionistic and sculpturesque, there was about him
a quality of the tragic, of the magnificent. He resembled a
sombre masterpiece by Rodin. No one could have been quite sure
what he was meant for.
Dinner bells tinkled in houses. Then they were rung from kitchen
doors. Calling voices came urging from the distance, calling
boys' names into the darkness. They called and a note of
irritation seemed to mar their beauty.
Then bells were rung again--and the voices renewed appeals more
urgent, much more irritated. They called and called and called.
THUD! went the mud balls.
Thud! Thud! Blunk!
"OOF!" said Penrod.
. . . Sam Williams, having dined with his family at their usual
hour, seven, slipped unostentatiously out of the kitchen door, as
soon as he could, after the conclusion of the meal, and quietly
betook himself to the Schofields' corner.
Here he stationed himself where he could see all avenues of
approach to the house, and waited. Twenty minutes went by, and
then Sam became suddenly alert and attentive, for the arc-light
revealed a small, grotesque figure slowly approaching along the
sidewalk.
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