A footstep sounded on the threshold of the store-room.

"Penrod, come down from that box this instant!"

"Ma'am?"

"Are you up in that sawdust-box again?" As Mrs. Schofield had just heard
her son's voice issue from the box, and also, as she knew he was there
anyhow, her question must have been put for oratorical purposes only.
"Because if you are," she continued promptly, "I'm going to ask your
papa not to let you play there any----"

Penrod's forehead, his eyes, the tops of his ears, and most of his hair,
became visible to her at the top of the box. "I ain't 'playing!'" he
said indignantly.

"Well, what ARE you doing?"

"Just coming down," he replied, in a grieved but patient tone.

"Then why don't you COME?"

"I got Duke here. I got to get him DOWN, haven't I? You don't suppose I
want to leave a poor dog in here to starve, do you?"

"Well, hand him down over the side to me. Let me----"

"I'll get him down all right," said Penrod. "I got him up here, and I
guess I can get him down!"