"Nothing!" Mr. Schofield laughed. "I just slapped you the way we used to slap each other on the campus. What I was going to say was that you have no business being a bachelor. With all your money, and nothing to do but travel and sit around hotels and clubs, no wonder you've grown bilious."
"Oh, no; I'm not bilious," Mr. Gilling said uncomfortably. "I'm not bilious at all."
"You ought to get married," Mr. Schofield returned. "You ought--"
He paused, for Mr. Gilling had jumped again. "What's the trouble, Joe?"
"Nothing. I thought perhaps--perhaps you were going to slap me on the back again."
"Not this time," Mr. Schofield said, renewing his laughter.
"Well, is dinner about ready?" he asked, turning to his wife.
"Where are Margaret and Penrod?"
"Margaret's just come in," Mrs. Schofield answered. "She'll be down in a minute, and Penrod's around somewhere."
"Penrod?" Mr. Gilling repeated curiously, in his nervous, serious way. "What is Penrod?"
And at this, Mrs. Schofield joined in her husband's laughter. Mr. Schofield explained.
"Penrod's our young son," he said. "He's not much for looks, maybe; but he's been pretty good lately, and sometimes we're almost inclined to be proud of him. You'll see him in a minute, old Joe!"
Old Joe saw him even sooner. Instantly, as Mr. Schofield finished his little prediction, the most shocking uproar ever heard in that house burst forth in the kitchen. Distinctly Irish shrieks unlimited came from that quarter--together with the clashing of hurled metal and tin, the appealing sound of breaking china, and the hysterical barking of a dog.