"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.
