Penrod leaned against the fence, and, lifting one leg, tested the knee-joint by swinging his foot back and forth, a process evidently provocative of a little pain. Then he rubbed the left side of his encrusted face, and, opening his mouth to its whole capacity as an aperture, moved his lower jaw slightly from side to side, thus triumphantly settling a question in his own mind as to whether or no a suspected dislocation had taken place. Having satisfied himself on these points, he examined both shins delicately by the sense of touch, and carefully tested the capacities of his neck-muscles to move his head in a wonted manner. Then he responded somewhat gruffly: “'Lo!” “Where you been?” Sam said eagerly, his formality vanishing. “Havin' a mud-fight.” “I guess you did!” Sam exclaimed, in a low voice. “What you goin' to tell your--” “Oh, nothin'.” “Your sister telephoned to our house to see if I knew where you were,” said Sam. “She told me if I saw you before you got home to tell you sumpthing; but not to say anything about it. She said Miss Spence had telephoned to her, but she said for me to tell you it was all right about that letter, and she wasn't goin' to tell your mother and father on you, so you needn't say anything about it to 'em.” “All right,” said Penrod indifferently. “She says you're goin' to be in enough trouble without that,” Sam went on. “You're goin' to catch fits about your Uncle Slocum's hat, Penrod.” “Well, I guess I know it.” “And about not comin' home to dinner, too. Your mother telephoned twice to Mamma while we were eatin' to see if you'd come in our house. And when they SEE you--MY, but you're goin' to get the DICKENS, Penrod!” Penrod seemed unimpressed, though he was well aware that Sam's prophecy was no unreasonable one. “Well, I guess I know it,” he repeated casually. And he moved slowly toward his own gate. His friend looked after him curiously--then, as the limping figure fumbled clumsily with bruised fingers at the latch of the gate, there sounded a little solicitude in Sam's voice. “Say, Penrod, how--how do you feel?” “What?” “Do you feel pretty bad?” “No,” said Penrod, and, in spite of what awaited him beyond the lighted portals just ahead, he spoke the truth. His nerves were rested, and his soul was at peace. His Wednesday madness was over. “No,” said Penrod; “I feel bully!” CHAPTER XVII. PENROD'S BUSY DAY