“I’m cold,” he complained.  Mrs. Brenner came close to him and laid her hand on his wet, matted hair.  “Tobey’s a bad boy,” she scolded.  “You mustn’t go out in the wet like this.  Your hair’s soaked.”

She got down stiffly on her lame knees.  “Sit down,” she ordered, “and I’ll take off your shoes.  They’re as wet as a dish-rag.”

“They’re full of water, too,” Tobey grumbled as he sprawled on the floor, sticking one big, awkward foot into her lap.  “The water in there makes me cold.”

“You spoil all your pa’s shoes that a-way,” said Mrs. Brenner, her head bent over her task.  “He told you not to go round in the wet with ’em any more.  He’ll give you a lashing if he comes in and sees your shoes.  I’ll have to try and get ’em dry before he comes home.  Anyways,” with a breath of deep relief, “I’m glad it ain’t that red clay from the hill.  That never comes off.”

The boy paid no attention to her.  He was investigating the contents of his box, poking a fat, dirty forefinger around among its fluttering contents.  There was a flash of yellow wings, and with a crow of triumph the boy shut the lid.

“The big one’s just more than flapping,” he chuckled.  “I had an awful hard time to catch him.  I had to run and run.  Look at him, Ma,” the boy urged.  She shook her head.

“I ain’t got the time,” she said, almost roughly.  “I got to get these shoes off’n you afore your father gets home, Tobey, or you’ll get a awful hiding.  Like as not you’ll get it anyways, if he’s mad.  Better get into bed.”

“Naw!” Tobey protested.  “I seen Pa already.  I want my supper out here!  I don’t want to go to bed!”

Mrs. Brenner paused.  “Where was Pa?” she asked.

But Tobey’s stretch of coherent thinking was past.  “I dunno!” he muttered.

Mrs. Brenner sighed.  She pulled off the sticky shoes and rose stiffly.

“Go get in bed,” she said.

“Aw, Ma, I want to stay up with my butterflies,” the boy pleaded.  Two big tears rolled down his fat cheeks.  In his queer, clouded world he had learned one certain fact.  He could almost always move his mother with tears.

But this time she was firm.  “Do as I told you!” she ordered him.  “Mebbe if you’re in bed your father won’t be thinking about you.  And I’ll try to dry these shoes afore he thinks about them.”  She took the grimy box from his resisting fingers, and, holding it in one hand, pulled him to his feet and pushed him off to his bedroom.

When she had closed the door on his wail she returned and laid the box on the shelf.  Then she hurried to gather up the shoes.  Something on her hand as she put it out for the sodden shoes caught her eye and she straightened, holding her hand up where the feeble light from the shelf caught it.

“I’ve cut myself,” she said aloud.  “There’s blood on my hand.  It must ‘a’ been on those lacings of Tobeys.”

The old woman in the corner roused.  “Blood!” she screeched.  “Olga!  Blood on his hands!”