He could hear his
parent's booming descent of the back stairs, instant and furious; and
then, red-hot above white lather, Mr. Schofield burst out of the kitchen
door and hurtled forth upon his son.
"What do you mean?" he demanded, shaking Penrod by the shoulder. "Ten
minutes ago, for the very first time in our lives, your mother and I
were saying we were proud of you, and here you go and throw a rock at me
through the window when I'm shaving for dinner!"
"I didn't!" Penrod quavered. "I was shooting at a sparrow, and the sun
got in his eyes, and the sling broke----"
"What sling?"
"This'n."
"Where'd you get that devilish thing? Don't you know I've forbidden you
a thousand times----"
"It ain't mine," said Penrod. "It's yours."
"What?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy meekly. "Aunt Sarah Crim gave it to me this
morning and told me to give it back to you. She said she took it away
from you thirty-five years ago. You killed her hen, she said. She told
me some more to tell you, but I've forgotten."
"Oh!" said Mr. Schofield.
He took the broken sling in his hand, looked at it long and
thoughtfully--and he looked longer, and quite as thoughtfully, at
Penrod. Then he turned away, and walked toward the house.
"I'm sorry, papa," said Penrod.
Mr. Schofield coughed, and, as he reached the door, called back, but
without turning his head.
"Never mind, little boy. A broken window isn't much harm."
When he had gone in, Penrod wandered down the yard to the back fence,
climbed upon it, and sat in reverie there.
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