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Updated: June 12, 2025
He can't get Nita, either. Mama's goin' to take care of her. Mama says so!" He was still talking, his eyes big, when they went into a brightly lighted room where a little bed set beside a big one. He was still talking while his mother undressed him. Then before he got into bed a spasm of virtuous reaction seized him. He and F'ank were never going to leave the yard any more, he declared.
But Tommy had no doubt whatever what Aunt Cindy's answer would be if he asked permission to leave the yard and follow Frank into the woods. She would put her foot down on it flat, and Aunt Cindy had a big foot. Better leave right now, while the old woman was in the midst of her churning and her song. "All right, F'ank," whispered Tommy.
But now passionately he threw the air rifle away from him, and stood looking up at his father with dilated eyes and heaving, sturdy chest. "Take the old gun!" he cried. "I don't want it! I killed Pete F'ank never done it. I shot him through the head!" His father had stooped down now, and he was in strong arms.
He was frightened, for he stopped a hundred feet away from the woods and his voice quavered. "F'ank?" He listened painfully, his mouth open, his chest heaving. When next he called there were tears in his voice. Finally, he looked all up and down the border of the woods. A third time he called, shriller, more tremulously. Then slowly he turned his back and started toward the house.
He wanted to leap on the bed, to rush round the room. The mother caught him by the mane. He must be still, she said. The voice of Tommy Earle when he spoke was as gentle and clear as the chirp of half-awakened birds out of the window. "F'ank?" he said. Steve Earle had to hold the dog now had to drag him away from the bed. They brought him a pan of water. They made him lie down.
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