"There!" Penrod said again, when she rejoined him in the darkness
outside. "What did I tell you? Didn't I say I'd get the blame of
it, no matter if the house went and fell down? I s'pose they
think I put mucilage and soap in my own shoes."
Marjorie delayed at the gate until some eagerly talking little
girls had passed out. The name "Penrod Schofield" was thick and
scandalous among them.
"Well," said Marjorie, "_I_ wouldn't care, Penrod. 'Course, about
soap and mucilage in YOUR shoes, anybody'd know some other boy
must of put 'em there to get even for what you put in his."
Penrod gasped.
"But I DIDN'T!" he cried. "I didn't do ANYTHING! That ole Miss
Rennsdale can say what she wants to, I didn't do--"
"Well, anyway, Penrod," said Marjorie, softly, "they can't ever
PROVE it was you."
He felt himself suffocating in a coil against which no struggle
availed.
"But I never DID it!" he wailed, helplessly. "I never did
anything at all!"
She leaned toward him a little, and the lights from her waiting
carriage illumined her dimly, but enough for him to see that her
look was fond and proud, yet almost awed.
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