“No,” Mrs. Baxter said, quietly, “you're not going back to count any more shingles, Willie. How much have you earned?”
He swallowed, but spoke bravely. “Thirty-six cents. But I've been getting lots faster the last two hours and there's a good deal of time before six o'clock. Mother—”
“No,” she said. “You're going over to that horrible place where you've left your clothes and your watch and all those other things in the two baskets, and you're going to bring them home at once.”
“Mother!” he cried, aghast. “Who told you?”
“It doesn't matter. You don't want your father to find out, do you? Then get those things back here as quickly as you can. They'll have to be fumigated after being in that den.”
“They've never been out of the baskets,” he protested, hotly, “except just to be looked at. They're MY things, mother, and I had a right to do what I needed to with 'em, didn't I?” His utterance became difficult. “You and father just CAN'T understand—and you won't do anything to help me—”
“Willie, you can go to the party,” she said, gently. “You didn't need those frightful clothes at all.”
“I do!” he cried. “I GOT to have 'em! I CAN'T go in my day clo'es! There's a reason you wouldn't understand why I can't. I just CAN'T!”
“Yes,” she said, “you can go to the party.”
“I can't, either! Not unless you give me three dollars and twenty-four cents, or unless I can get back to the lumber-yard and earn the rest before—”