"Some fellows never learn. Others get fairly expert after a few
weeks puttering around."

"May I try one today?"

"Sure thing. If the next one is easy I will give you a chance
at it."

The next daub proved to be a small hay barn a little way back in
a field.

"There's your chance, my boy," he said.

Phil jumped out before the wagon had come to a stop and, with
paper and brush under his arms, ran across the field. With more
skill than might have been expected with his limited experience
he smeared the paper with paste, then sought to raise it up to
the side of the building as he had seen Billy Conley do.

This was where Phil came to grief. A gust of wind doubled the
paper up, the pasted side smearing the bright colors of the face
of the picture, until the colors were one hopeless daub. To cap
the climax the whole thing came down over Phil's head, wrapping
him in its slimy folds.

"Hey, help!" he shouted. "I'm posting myself instead of
the barn."

Billy sat down on the ground, laughing until the tears ran down
his cheeks.