“Well,” said Mr. Schofield, patting her on the shoulder. “I guess we can hold up our heads at last.” CHAPTER XXXI OVER THE FENCE 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.