the door, a gigantic Eye seemed to
form--seemed to glare down upon Penrod--warning him that the way of
vengeance is the way of bafflement, and that genius may not prevail
against the trickeries of women.

"This has been a NICE day!" Penrod muttered hoarsely.

CHAPTER XVIII. ON ACCOUNT OF THE WEATHER

There is no boredom (not even an invalid's) comparable to that of a boy
who has nothing to do. When a man says he has nothing to do, he speaks
idly; there is always more than he can do. Grown women never say they
have nothing to do, and when girls or little girls say they have nothing
to do, they are merely airing an affectation. But when a boy has nothing
to do, he has actually nothing at all to do; his state is pathetic, and
when he complains of it his voice is haunting.

Mrs. Schofield was troubled by this uncomfortable quality in the voice
of her son, who came to her thrice, in his search for entertainment or
even employment, one Saturday afternoon during the February thaw. Few
facts are better established than that the February thaw is the poorest
time of year for everybody. But for a boy it is worse than poorest; it
is bankrupt. The remnant streaks of old soot-speckled snow left against
the north walls of houses have no power to inspire; rather, they are
dreary reminders of sports long since carried to satiety. One cares
little even to eat such snow, and the eating of icicles, also, has come
to be a flaccid and stale diversion. There is no ice to bear a skate,
there is only a vast sufficiency of cold mud, practically useless.
Sunshine flickers shiftily, coming and going without any honest purpose;
snow-squalls blow for five minutes, the flakes disappearing as they
touch the earth; half an hour later rain sputters, turns to snow and
then turns back to rain--and the sun disingenuously beams out again,
only to be shut off like a rogue's lantern. And all the wretched while,
if a boy sets foot out of doors, he must be harassed about his overcoat
and rubbers; he is warned against tracking up the plastic lawn and
sharply advised to stay inside the house. Saturday might as well be
Sunday.

Thus the season. Penrod had sought all possible means to pass the time.
A full half-hour of vehement yodelling in the Williams' yard had failed
to bring forth comrade Sam; and at last a coloured woman had opened a
window to inform Penrod that her intellect was being unseated by his
vocalizations, which surpassed in unpleasantness,