on
surface.

Other surprises were arranged for the absent workmen. The caldron was
almost full, and the surface of the tar near the rim.

Penrod endeavoured to ascertain how many pebbles and brickbats, dropped
in, would cause an overflow. Labouring heartily to this end, he
had almost accomplished it, when he received the suggestion for an
experiment on a much larger scale. Embedded at the corner of a
grassplot across the street was a whitewashed stone, the size of a small
watermelon and serving no purpose whatever save the questionable one of
decoration. It was easily pried up with a stick; though getting it to
the caldron tested the full strength of the ardent labourer. Instructed
to perform such a task, he would have sincerely maintained its
impossibility but now, as it was unbidden, and promised rather
destructive results, he set about it with unconquerable energy, feeling
certain that he would be rewarded with a mighty splash. Perspiring,
grunting vehemently, his back aching and all muscles strained, he
progressed in short stages until the big stone lay at the base of the
caldron. He rested a moment, panting, then lifted the stone, and was
bending his shoulders for the heave that would lift it over the rim,
when a sweet, taunting voice, close behind him, startled him cruelly.

"How do you do, LITTLE GENTLEMAN!"

Penrod squawked, dropped the stone, and shouted, "Shut up, you dern
fool!" purely from instinct, even before his about-face made him aware
who had so spitefully addressed him.

It was Marjorie Jones. Always dainty, and prettily dressed, she was in
speckless and starchy white to-day, and a refreshing picture she made,
with the new-shorn and powerfully scented Mitchy-Mitch clinging to
her hand. They had stolen up behind the toiler, and now stood laughing
together in sweet merriment. Since the passing of Penrod's Rupe Collins
period he had experienced some severe qualms at the recollection of his
last meeting with Marjorie and his Apache behaviour; in truth, his heart
instantly became as wax at sight of her, and he would have offered
her fair speech; but, alas! in Marjorie's wonderful eyes there shone
a consciousness of new powers for his undoing, and she denied him
opportunity.

"Oh, OH!" she cried, mocking his pained outcry. "What a way for a LITTLE
GENTLEMAN to talk! Little gentleman don't say wicked----"

"Marjorie!" Penrod, enraged and dismayed, felt himself stung beyond all
endurance. Insult from