“Oh, you will!” Maurice cried with astonishing truculence, contorting himself into what he may have considered a posture of defense.  “Let’s see you try it, you—­you itcher!”

For the moment, defiance from such a source was dumfounding.  Then, luckily, Penrod recollected something and glanced at the automobile.

Perceiving therein not only the alert chauffeur but the magnificent outlines of Mrs. Levy, his enemy’s mother, he manoeuvred his lifted hand so that it seemed he had but meant to scratch his ear.

“Well, I guess I better be goin’,” he said casually.  “See you tomorrow!”

Maurice mounted to the lap of luxury, and Penrod strolled away with an assumption of careless ease which was put to a severe strain when, from the rear window of the car, a sudden protuberance in the nature of a small, dark, curly head shrieked scornfully: 

“Go on—­you big stiff!”

The cotillon loomed dismally before Penrod now; but it was his duty to secure a partner and he set about it with a dreary heart.  The delay occasioned by his fruitless attempt on Marjorie and the altercation with his enemy at her gate had allowed other ladies ample time to prepare for callers—­and to receive them.  Sadly he went from house to house, finding that he had been preceded in one after the other.  Altogether his hand for the cotillon was declined eleven times that afternoon on the legitimate ground of previous engagement.  This, with Marjorie, scored off all except five of the seventeen possible partners; and four of the five were also sealed away from him, as he learned in chance encounters with other boys upon the street.

One lady alone remained; he bowed to the inevitable and entered this lorn damsel’s gate at twilight with an air of great discouragement.  The lorn damsel was Miss Rennsdale, aged eight.

We are apt to forget that there are actually times of life when too much youth is a handicap.  Miss Rennsdale was beautiful; she danced like a premiere; she had every charm but age.  On that account alone had she been allowed so much time to prepare to receive callers that it was only by the most manful efforts she could keep her lip from trembling.

A decorous maid conducted the long-belated applicant to her where she sat upon a sofa beside a nursery governess.  The decorous maid announced him composedly as he made his entrance.

“Mr. Penrod Schofield!”

Miss Rennsdale suddenly burst into loud sobs.

“Oh!” she wailed.  “I just knew it would be him!”

The decorous maid’s composure vanished at once—­likewise her decorum.  She clapped her hand over her mouth and fled, uttering sounds.  The governess, however, set herself to comfort her heartbroken charge, and presently succeeded in restoring Miss Rennsdale to a semblance of that poise with which a lady receives callers and accepts invitations to dance cotillons.  But she continued to sob at intervals.