rfulness again by
Penrod's suggestion that they should put a notice in the paper. Neither
of them had the slightest idea how to get it there, but such details as
that were beyond the horizon; they occupied themselves with the
question of what their advertisement ought to "say." Finding that they
differed irreconcilably, Penrod went to a cache of his in the
sawdust-box and brought two pencils and a supply of paper. He gave one
of the pencils and several sheets to Sam; then both boys bent
themselves in silence to the labor of practical composition. Penrod
produced the briefer paragraph. (See Fig. I.) Sam's was more ample.
(See Fig. II.)

[Illustration: FIG I]

[Illustration: FIG II]

Neither Sam nor Penrod showed any interest in what the other had
written, but both felt that something praiseworthy had been
accomplished. Penrod exhaled a sigh, as of relief, and, in a manner he
had observed his father use sometimes, he said:

"Thank goodness, _that's_ off my mind, anyway!"

"What we goin' do next, Penrod?" Sam asked deferentially, the borrowed
manner having some effect upon him.

"I don't know what _you're_ goin' to do," Penrod returned, picking up
the old cigar box which had contained the paper and pencils. _"I'm_
goin' to put mine in here, so's it'll come in handy when I haf to get
at it."

"Well, I guess I'll keep mine there, too," said Sam. Thereupon he
deposited his scribbled slip beside Penrod's in the cigar box, and the
box was solemnly returned to the secret place whence it had been taken.

"There, _that's_ 'tended to!" said Sam, and, unconsciously imitating
his friend's imitation, he gave forth audibly a breath of satisfaction
and relief. Both boys felt that the financial side of their great
affair had been conscientiously looked to, that the question of the
reward was settled, and that everything was proceeding in a
businesslike manner. Therefore, they were able to turn their attention
to another matter.

This was the question of Whitey's next meal. After their exploits of
the morning, and the consequent imperilment of Penrod, they decided
that nothing more was to be done in apples, vegetables, or bread; it
was evident that Whitey must be fed from the bosom of nature.

"We couldn't pull enough o' that frostbit ole grass in the yard to feed
him," Penrod said gloomily. "We could work a week and not get enough to
make him swaller more'n about twice. All we got this morning, he blew
most of it away. He'd