Penrod was out in the yard, staring at the empty marquee. The sun was on
the horizon line, so far behind the back fence, and a western window of
the house blazed in gold unbearable to the eye: his day was nearly
over. He sighed, and took from the inside pocket of his new jacket the
“sling-shot” aunt Sarah Crim had given him that morning.
He snapped the rubbers absently. They held fast; and his next impulse
was entirely irresistible. He found a shapely stone, fitted it to the
leather, and drew back the ancient catapult for a shot. A sparrow hopped
upon a branch between him and the house, and he aimed at the sparrow,
but the reflection from the dazzling window struck in his eyes as he
loosed the leather.
He missed the sparrow, but not the window. There was a loud crash,
and to his horror he caught a glimpse of his father, stricken in
mid-shaving, ducking a shower of broken glass, glittering razor
flourishing wildly. Words crashed with the glass, stentorian words,
fragmentary but collossal.
Penrod stood petrified, a broken sling in his hand. 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.
A slight figure appeared, likewise upon a fence, beyond two neighbouring
yards.
“Yay, Penrod!” called comrade Sam Williams.
“Yay!” returned Penrod, mechanically.
“I caught Billy Blue Hill!” shouted Sam, describing retribution in a
manner perfectly clear to his friend. “You were mighty lucky to get out
of it.”
“I know that!”
“You wouldn't of, if it hadn't been for Marjorie.”
“Well, don't I know that?” Penrod shouted, with heat.
“Well, so long!” called Sam, dropping from his fence; and the friendly
voice came then, more faintly, “Many happy returns of the day, Penrod!”
And now, a plaintive little whine sounded from below Penrod's feet, and,
looking down, he saw that Duke, his wistful, old, scraggly dog sat in
the grass, gazing seekingly up at him.
The last shaft of sunshine of that day fell graciously and like a
blessing upon the boy sitting on the fence. Years afterward, a quiet
sunset would recall to him sometimes the gentle evening of his twelfth
birthday, and bring him the picture of his boy self, sitting in rosy
light upon the fence, gazing pensively down upon his wistful, scraggly,
little old dog, Duke. But something else, surpassing, he would remember
of that hour, for, in the side street, close by, a pink skirt flickered
from behind a shade tree to the shelter of the fence, there was a gleam
of amber curls, and Penrod started, as something like a tiny white wing
fluttered by his head, and there came to his ears the sound of a light
laugh and of light footsteps departing, the laughter tremulous, the
footsteps fleet.
In the grass, between Duke's forepaws, there lay a white note, folded in
the shape of a cocked hat, and the sun sent forth a final amazing glory
as Penrod opened it and read:
“Your my bow.”