"What do you think of it?" he asked impulsively.
Bert half closed his eyes and studied it in a silence that grew prolonged.
"I knew I didn't have it," Bill said in disappointment. "It doesn't look real; it looks just painted. All right; I'll get it some day. You'll see." He went back to his chair, and the Butterfly Man began to whistle.
"Years, Bill," he said.
"Sure," said Bill; "I forgot. Trying to kick the ball before I had it." And then he was bent over a fresh piece of board.
All through the afternoon the Butterfly Man wrote letters to butterfly men in scattered parts of the world . . . and all through the afternoon Bert hovered over Bill's chair and never seemed to weary of watching the busy brushes at work. By and by it grew darker, but neither of the boys seemed to notice the gathering gloom. Tom Woods, at the table, began to find writing dificult.
"Run up that window shade," he called. "I'm not an owl."
"It is up," Bert answered, and looked at the sky. A tumble of angry clouds was coming out of the southwest in a smolder of black and dirty gray. A faint peal of thunder reached his ears.
"Look here, Bill," he said in concern, "we'd better be hopping along."
