wide step, ten feet in the air,—and Dad never was much of a gymnast.
Bess's eyes met mine, and then we turned our heads away, quick.
"Stop jiggling that ladder, will you?" sputtered Dad; and then he tried the other foot, and got it down farther than he did the first one,—and jerked it back quicker—and just then the front door opened and old Mrs. Davis came in.
I was facing the door, and so was Dad. Mrs. Davis looked around cheerfully as she came in,—and then she caught sight of Dad, up on the step-ladder.
"Oh, there's Mr. Williams," she said, smiling. "Mr. Williams, I want you to show me some solid silver spoons. I want one for my little granddaughter's birthday." And then she waited.
Dad did the wet-cat act again, and changed hands; but didn't say a word.
"You're not too busy, are you, Mr. Williams?" she asked, winningly, not seeing him getting down very fast.
"H-m—well," said Dad, "The—the fact is, I can't come down."
"Couldn't you do that up cheese some other
