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“Please, please explain,” Bob implored. “I want to believe in him.” “Yes, but you mustn’t look at that corner, for there’s a tiny piece off there; nor right there either; and here it is badly carved, as you see, Uncle Isaac. But if you hold it like this and just look at the whole—why, it isn’t so bad,” said Johnny Blossom, beaming. “But what happened to the rest? Did they get away?”.

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Every day at home he had a great gymnastic performance, holding a dining-room chair at arm’s length. He could do it splendidly now, so lately he had thought he would practise holding his sisters up that way. If he began with the littlest sister he might by degrees work up to the biggest. Perhaps even so he might not be able to manage Asta—she was so fat. But they were all tiresome. They screamed if he merely touched them. Just think what happened in the dining room only yesterday? Pshaw! That was always the way! The more pains you took, the worse was the writing. Some of the letters were awfully small and crooked and others were too big; and the whole thing slanted down hill so that there was scarcely room for his name underneath in the corner; and of course his name must be there. Johnny Blossom sat crouched together on the veranda steps, Mother sat on the veranda sewing, and the sun shone hotly down. Long silence. “Gee whiz, but we’ll have to get busy in a hurry,” snapped Bob. “Come on, we’ll wake Mr. Taylor.”.