they won't get to touch you back out o' bein' our pris'ner very soon, NOW! Oh, I guess not!”
“Pshaw!” said Sam. “Is that all you were goin' to do? Why, your mother'll come and make him get out the first—”
“No, she won't. She and Margaret have gone to my aunt's in the country, and aren't goin' to be back till dark. And even if he made a lot o' noise, it's kind of hard to hear anything from in there, anyway, when the door's shut. Besides, he's got to keep quiet—that's the rule, Verman. You're a pris'ner, and it's the rule you can't holler or nothin'. You unnerstand that, Verman?”
“Aw wi,” said Verman.
“Then go on in there. Hurry!”
The obedient Verman marched into the closet and sat down among the shoes and slippers, where he presented an interesting effect of contrast. He was still subject to hilarity—though endeavouring to suppress it by means of a patent-leather slipper—when Penrod closed the door.
“There!” said Penrod, leading the way from the room. “I guess NOW you see!”
Sam said nothing, and they came out to the open air and reached their retreat in the Williams' yard again, without his having acknowledged Penrod's service to their mutual cause.
“I thought of that just as easy!” Penrod remarked, probably prompted to this odious bit of complacency by Sam's withholding the praise that might naturally have been expected. And he was moved to add, “I guess it'd of been a pretty long while if we'd had to wait for you to think of something as good as that, Sam.”
“Why would it?” Sam asked. “Why would it of been such a long while?”
“Oh,” Penrod responded airily, “just for the main and simple reason!”
Sam could bear it no longer. “Oh, hush up!” he shouted.
Penrod was stung. “Do you mean ME?” he demanded.
“Yes, I do!” the goaded Sam replied.
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