“Maybe not.”
“Anyhow, he's dead,” said the boy.
He watched Anderson carefully as he manipulated the insect.
“I'm sorry his wing got broken,” he said. “I wonder why God makes butterflies' wings so awful brittle that they can't be caught without spoiling 'em. The other wing ain't hurt much, anyhow.”
A sudden thought struck Anderson. “Why, when did you get this butterfly?” he asked.
The boy flushed vividly. He gave a sorrowful, obstinate glance at the man, as much as to say, “I am sad that you should force me into such a course, but I must be firm.” Then he looked away, staring out of the window at the tree-tops tossing against the brilliant blue of the sky, and made no reply.
Anderson made a swift calculation. He glanced at a clock on the wall. “Where did you get this butterfly?” he inquired, harmlessly, and the boy fell into the net.
“In that field just beyond the oak grove on the road to New Sanderson,” he replied, with entire innocence.
Anderson surveyed him sharply.
“When is afternoon school out?” asked Anderson.