“Please try not to do it,” she urged pleadingly. “You CAN stop it if you try. Won't you, dear?” But Penrod felt that he was almost upon the point of attaining a mastery equal to Sam Williams's. He had just managed to do something in his throat that he had never done before, and he felt that unless he kept on doing it at this time, his new-born facility might evade him later. “Gunk!” he croaked. “Gunk--gunk-gunk!” And he continued to croak, persevering monotonously, his expression indicating the depth of his preoccupation. His mother looked down solicitously, murmured in a melancholy undertone, shook her head; then disappeared from the window, and, after a moment or two, opened the front door. “Come in, dear,” she said; “I've got something for you.” Penrod's look of preoccupation vanished; he brightened and ceased to croak. His mother had already given him a small leather pocketbook with a nickel in it, as a souvenir of her journey. Evidently she had brought another gift as well, delaying its presentation until now. “I've got something for you!” These were auspicious words. “What is it, Mamma?” he asked, and, as she smiled tenderly upon him, his gayety increased. “Yay!” he shouted. “Mamma, is it that reg'lar carpenter's tool chest I told you about?” “No,” she said. “But I'll show you, Penrod. Come on, dear.” He followed her with alacrity to the dining-room, and the bright anticipation in his eyes grew more brilliant--until she opened the door of the china-closet, simultaneously with that action announcing cheerily: “It's something that's going to do you lots of good, Penrod.” He was instantly chilled, for experience had taught him that when predictions of this character were made, nothing pleasant need be expected. Two seconds later his last hope departed as she turned from the closet and he beheld in her hands a quart bottle containing what appeared to be a section of grassy swamp immersed in a cloudy brown liquor. He stepped back, grave suspicion in his glance. “What IS that?” he asked, in a hard voice. Mrs. Schofield smiled upon him. “It's nothing,” she said. “That is, it's nothing you'll mind at all. It's just so you won't be so nervous.” “I'm not nervous.” “You don't think so, of course, dear,” she returned, and, as she spoke, she poured some of the brown liquor into a tablespoon. “People often can't tell when they're nervous themselves; but your Papa and I have been getting a little anxious about you, dear, and so I got this medicine for you.” “WHERE'D you get it?” he demanded. Mrs. Schofield set the bottle down and moved toward him, insinuatingly extending the full tablespoon. “Here, dear,” she said; “just take this little spoonful, like a goo--” “I want to know where it came from,” he insisted darkly, again stepping backward.