Penrod’s jaw fell; Sam’s mouth had been open all the time.  Neither spoke.

“I gotta go,” observed Maurice, consulting a handsome watch.  “Gotta get dressed for the cotillon right after lunch.  Come on, Sam.  Don’t you have to go, too?”

Sam nodded dazedly.

“Well, good-bye, Penrod,” said Maurice cordially.  “I’m glad you like me all right.  Come on, Sam.”

Penrod leaned against the doorpost and with fixed and glazing eyes watched the departure of his two visitors.  Maurice was talking volubly, with much gesticulation, as they went; but Sam walked mechanically and in silence, staring at his brisk companion and keeping at a little distance from him.

They passed from sight, Maurice still conversing gayly—­and Penrod slowly betook himself into the house, his head bowed upon his chest.

Some three hours later, Mr. Samuel Williams, waxen clean and in sweet raiment, made his reappearance in Penrod’s yard, yodelling a code-signal to summon forth his friend.  He yodelled loud, long, and frequently, finally securing a faint response from the upper air.

“Where are you?” shouted Mr. Williams, his roving glance searching ambient heights.  Another low-spirited yodel reaching his ear, he perceived the head and shoulders of his friend projecting above the roofridge of the stable.  The rest of Penrod’s body was concealed from view, reposing upon the opposite slant of the gable and precariously secured by the crooking of his elbows over the ridge.

“Yay!  What you doin’ up there?”

“Nothin’.”

“You better be careful!” Sam called.  “You’ll slide off and fall down in the alley if you don’t look out.  I come pert’ near it last time we was up there.  Come on down!  Ain’t you goin’ to the cotillon?”

Penrod made no reply.  Sam came nearer.

“Say,” he called up in a guarded voice, “I went to our telephone a while ago and ast him how he was feelin’, and he said he felt fine!”

“So did I,” said Penrod.  “He told me he felt bully!”

Sam thrust his hands in his pockets and brooded.  The opening of the kitchen door caused a diversion.  It was Della.

“Mister Penrod,” she bellowed forthwith, “come ahn down fr’m up there!  Y’r mamma’s at the dancin’ class waitin’ fer ye, an’ she’s telephoned me they’re goin’ to begin—­an’ what’s the matter with ye?  Come ahn down fr’m up there!”

“Come on!” urged Sam.  “We’ll be late.  There go Maurice and Marjorie now.”

A glittering car spun by, disclosing briefly a genre picture of Marjorie Jones in pink, supporting a monstrous sheaf of American Beauty roses.  Maurice, sitting shining and joyous beside her, saw both boys and waved them a hearty greeting as the car turned the corner.

Penrod uttered some muffled words and then waved both arms—­either in response or as an expression of his condition of mind; it may have been a gesture of despair.  How much intention there was in this act—­obviously so rash, considering the position he occupied—­it is impossible to say.  Undeniably there must remain a suspicion of deliberate purpose.