Mrs. Brenner, with her painful hobble, reached the door before the
steps paused there, and threw it open.
The feeble light fell on the round, vacant face of her son his
inevitable pasteboard box, grimy with much handling, clutched close
to his big breast, and in it the soft beating and thudding of
imprisoned wings.
Mrs. Brenner's voice was scarcely more than a whisper, "Tobey!" but
it rose shrilly as she cried, "Where you been? What was that scream?"
Tobey stumbled past her headlong into the house, muttering,
"I'm cold!"
She shut the door and followed him to the stove, where he stood
shaking himself and beating at his damp clothes with clumsy fingers.
"What was that scream?" she asked him tensely. She knotted her rough
fingers as she waited for his answer.
"I dunno," he grunted sullenly. His thick lower lip shoved itself
forward, baby-fashion.
"Where you been?" she persisted.
As he did not answer she coaxed him, "Aw, come on, Tobey. Tell Ma.
Where you been?"
"I been catching butterflies," he answered. "I got a big one this
time," with an air of triumph.
"Where was you when you heard the scream?" she asked him cunningly.
He gave a slow shake of his head. "I dunno," he answered in his dull
voice.
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