a missile in his hand are better evidence of the workings of
logic upon a practical nature than of faith in the supernatural.

Moreover, the attention of family physicians and specialists should be
drawn to these significant though obscure phenomena; for the suffering
of cats is a barometer of the nerve-pressure of boys, and it may
be accepted as sufficiently established that Wednesday--after
school-hours--is the worst time for cats.

After the promulgation of that parental edict, "You'll stay in bed till
the next morning", four weeks went by unflawed by a single absence from
the field of duty; but, when the fifth Wednesday came, Penrod held sore
debate within himself before he finally rose. In fact, after rising,
and while actually engaged with his toilet, he tentatively emitted
the series of little moans that was his wonted preliminary to a quiet
holiday at home; and the sound was heard (as intended) by Mr. Schofield,
who was passing Penrod's door on his way to breakfast.

"ALL right!" the father said, making use of peculiar and unnecessary
emphasis. "Stay in bed till to-morrow morning. Castor-oil, this time,
too."

Penrod had not hoped much for his experiment; nevertheless his
rebellious blood was sensibly inflamed by the failure, and he
accompanied his dressing with a low murmuring--apparently a bitter
dialogue between himself and some unknown but powerful patron.

Thus he muttered:

"Well, they better NOT!" "Well, what can I DO about it?" "Well, I'D show
'em!" "Well, I WILL show 'em!" "Well, you OUGHT to show 'em; that's the
way _I_ do! I just shake 'em around, and say, 'Here! I guess you don't
know who you're talkin' to like that! You better look out!'" "Well,
that's the way _I_'m goin' to do!" "Well, go on and DO it, then!" "Well,
I AM goin'--"

The door of the next room was slightly ajar; now it swung wide, and
Margaret appeared.

"Penrod, what on earth are you talking about?"

"Nothin'. None o' your--"

"Well, hurry to breakfast, then; it's getting late."

Lightly she went, humming a tune, leaving the door of her room open, and
the eyes of Penrod, as he donned his jacket, chanced to fall upon her
desk, where she had thoughtlessly left a letter--a private missive just
begun, and intended solely for the eyes of Mr. Robert Williams, a senior
at a far university.

In such a fashion is coincidence the architect of misfortune. Penrod's
class in English composition had been instructed, the previous day