Encouraged, he went to her and leaned against her knee; she brushed his hair back off his forehead, just as she always did. "What is it, dear?" she asked. "Papa ain't goin' to whip F'ank, is he, Mama?" "Why, yes--he has to." "I tol' F'ank to kill him!" "But Frank's a grown dog--he knew better." He grew suddenly angry--angry at her very simplicity. "F'ank won't kill any more chickens!" "How do you know?" "I know!" he cried, and stamped his foot. "I know!" He came away from this futile interview in a suppressed rage. From the hall he saw old Aunt Cindy waddling about in the dining room. No use to appeal to her. She knew too much, anyhow, that old woman. There was in her nature none of the simple credulity that characterized his parents. She was worldly wise, like himself. He avoided her, therefore, his face turned over his shoulder, afraid she would see and call him. He went out on the front porch, down the steps, and, gun under his arm, sauntered round the house to the kennel. Old Frank came to meet him as far as the chain would allow. Frank thought he was going to be turned loose now--his eyes showed it. There was a log of wood beside the kennel, and the boy sat down on it. Frank nestled close to him, tail dragging across the ground. Suddenly the boy was all attention, and Frank had pricked his ears. Steve Earle had come from the pasture, gone up the back steps, and into the room with the boy's mother. Through the open window just above the kennel he could hear them talking in a confidential sort of way, as grown folks talk when they think no one is listening. "Where's the boy?" asked Earle. "I don't know, Steve--he went out just now." She was silent a while, then she spoke, with a little laugh that didn't sound like a laugh: "Steve--it's pitiful, pitiful!" "It's drastic, Mother--but it's the best way." "But, Steve--suppose it doesn't work?" It was his father who was silent now. "Then that will be pretty tough, Mother," he said at last. They talked some more--meaningless grown folks' talk that didn't get anywhere. It didn't seem to bear even remotely on the essential question in hand, which was whether or not Frank was to be whipped. They weren't even interested enough in the matter to speak of it. They just talked--that was all. They didn't care anything about him and Frank, or what became of them. They thought more of roosters than of anything else. They were all against him and Frank and the gun. All right--he and Frank and the gun would look out for themselves! Once more his mind filled with visions of a wild life, in which escape and vengeance were mingled in proper and satisfying proportions. In the woods beyond the pasture was a cave, which he and Frank could reach before dark. Then they would ring the farm bell and raise a great hullabaloo, but he and Frank, safe within the dark cavern, would live their own lives.