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!".