"Very well," said Earle, and went off alone, through the lot and into the corn.
And he got no comfort whatever out of the talk he had with his mother a little later in the living room, though she smiled at him when he entered, and put her sewing aside.
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!"