Mr. Blakely had inclined himself so far toward Margaret, and he was sitting so near the edge of the chair, that only a really wonderful bit of instinctive gymnastics landed him upon his feet instead of upon his back. As for Margaret, she said, “Good gracious!” and regarded Penrod blankly. “Well,” said Penrod breezily, “I guess it's no use lookin' for him--he isn't anywheres around. I guess I'll sit down.” Herewith, he sank into an easy chair, and remarked, as in comfortable explanation, “I'm kind of tired standin' up, anyway.” Even in this crisis, Margaret was a credit to her mother's training. “Penrod, have you met Mr. Blakely?” “What?” Margaret primly performed the rite. “Mr. Blakely, this is my little brother Penrod.” Mr. Blakely was understood to murmur, “How d'ye do?” “I'm well,” said Penrod. Margaret bent a perplexed gaze upon him, and he saw that she had not divined his intentions, though the expression of Mr. Blakely was already beginning to be a little compensation for the ammonia outrage. Then, as the protracted silence which followed the introduction began to be a severe strain upon all parties, Penrod felt called upon to relieve it. “I didn't have anything much to do this afternoon, anyway,” he said. And at that there leaped a spark in Margaret's eye; her expression became severe. “You should have gone to Sunday-school,” she told him crisply. “Well, I didn't!” said Penrod, with a bitterness so significant of sufferings connected with religion, ammonia, and herself, that Margaret, after giving him a thoughtful look, concluded not to urge the point. Mr. Blakely smiled pleasantly. “I was looking out of the window a minute ago,” he said, “and I saw a dog run across the street and turn the corner.” “What kind of a lookin' dog was it?” Penrod inquired, with languor. “Well,” said Mr. Blakely, “it was a--it was a nice-looking dog.” “What colour was he?” “He was--ah--white. That is, I think--” “It wasn't Duke,” said Penrod. “Duke's kind of brownish-gray-like.” Mr. Blakely brightened. “Yes, that was it,” he said. “This dog I saw first had another dog with him--a brownish-gray dog.” “Little or big?” Penrod asked, without interest. “Why, Duke's a little dog!” Margaret intervened. “Of COURSE, if it was little, it must have been Duke.” “It WAS little,” said Mr. Blakely too enthusiastically. “It was a little bit of a dog. I noticed it because it was so little.” “Couldn't 'a' been Duke, then,” said Penrod. “Duke's a kind of a middle-sized dog.” He yawned, and added: “I don't want him now. I want to stay in the house this afternoon, anyway. And it's better for Duke to be out in the fresh air.” Mr. Blakely coughed again and sat down, finding little to say. It was evident, also, that Margaret shared his perplexity; and another silence became so embarrassing that Penrod broke it.