"Penrod Schofield, you bad boy," said Marjorie, "you started every bit of that! You ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"_I_ didn't do anything," he said--and he believed it. "Pick on me for everything!"
"Well, they wouldn't if you didn't do so much," said Marjorie.
"They would, too."
"They wouldn't, either. Who would?"
"That Miss Lowe," he specified bitterly. "Yes, and Baby Rennsdale's aunts. If the house'd burn down, I bet they'd say Penrod Schofield did it! Anybody does anything at ALL, they say, 'Penrod Schofield, shame on you!' When you and Carlie were dan--"
"Penrod, I just hate that little Carlie Chitten. P'fesser Bartet made me learn that dance with him; but I just hate him."
Penrod was now almost completely mollified; nevertheless, he continued to set forth his grievance. "Well, they all turned around to me and they said, 'Why, Penrod Schofield, shame on you!' And I hadn't done a single thing! I was just standin' there. They got to blame ME, though!"
Marjorie laughed airily. "Well, if you aren't the foolishest--"
"They would, too," he asserted, with renewed bitterness. "If the house was to fall down, you'd see! They'd all say--"
Marjorie interrupted him. She put her hand on the top of her head, looking a little startled.
"What's that?" she said.
"What's what?"
"Like rain!" Marjorie cried. "Like it was raining in here! A drop fell on my--"
"Why, it couldn't--" he began. But at this instant a drop fell upon his head, too, and, looking up, they beheld a great oozing splotch upon the ceiling. Drops were gathering upon it and falling; the tinted plaster was cracking, and a little stream began to patter down and splash upon the floor. Then there came a resounding thump upstairs, just above them, and fragments of wet plaster fell.
"The roof must be leaking," said Marjorie, beginning to be alarmed.