And as the two comrades moved dumbly into the lighted room, Penrod's mother rose, and, taking him by the shoulder, urged him close to the fire.
"You stand there and try to dry off a little, while I finish telling Mr. and Mrs. Williams about you and Sam," she said.
"You'd better make Sam keep near the fire, too, Mrs. Williams, because they both got wringing wet. Think of their running off just when most people would have wanted to stay! Well, I'll go on with the story, then. Della told me all about it, and what the cook next door said SHE'D seen, how they'd been trying to pull grass and leaves for the poor old thing all day--and all about the apples they carried from YOUR cellar, and getting wet and working in the rain as hard as they could--and they'd given him a loaf of bread! Shame on you, Penrod!" She paused to laugh; but there was a little moisture about her eyes, even before she laughed. "And they'd fed him on potatoes and lettuce and cabbage and turnips out of OUR cellar! And I wish you'd see the sawdust bed they made for him! Well, when I'd telephoned, and the Humane Society man got there, he said it was the most touching thing he ever knew. It seems he KNEW this horse, and had been looking for him. He said ninety-nine boys out of a hundred would have chased the poor old thing away, and he was going to see to it that this case didn't go unnoticed, because the local branch of the society gives little silver medals for special acts like this. And the last thing he said was that he was sure Penrod and Sam each would be awarded one at the meeting of the society next Thursday night."