“If this ain’t just like Billy, all time got to perpose to clam’ a ladder and all time got to let the ladder get loose from him,” growled Jimmy.  “We done cooked a goose egg, this time.  You got us up here, Billy, how you going to get us down?”

“I didn’t, neither.”

“Well, it’s Miss Minerva’s house and she’s your aunt and we’s your company and you got to be ’sponsible.”

“I can clam’ down this-here post,” said the responsible party.

“I can climb down it, too,” seconded Frances.

“You can’t clam’ down nothing at all,” said Jimmy contemptuously.  “Talk ‘bout you can clam’ down a post; you’d fall and bust yourself wide open; you ’bout the clumsiest girl there is; ’sides, your legs ’re too fat.”

“We can holla,” was Lina’s suggestion.

“And have grown folks laughing fit to pop their sides open?  I’m ‘shame’ to go anywheres now ’cause folks all time telling me when I’m going to dye some more Easter eggs!  Naw, we better not holler,” said Jimmy.  “Ain’t you going to do nothing, Billy?”

“I’ll jest slide down this-here post and git the painter man to bring his ladder back.  Y’ all wait up here.”

Billy’s solution of the difficulty seemed the safest, and they were soon released from their elevated prison.

“I might as well go home and be learning the catechism,” groaned Lina.

“I’m going to get right in the closet soon’s I get to my house,” said Frances.

“Go on and put on your night-shirt, Billy.”  Billy took himself to the bath-room and scrubbed and scrubbed; but the paint refused to come off.  He tiptoed by the kitchen where his aunt was cooking dinner and ran into his own room.

He found the shoes and stockings which were reserved for Sunday wear, and soon had them upon his little feet.

Miss Minerva rang the dinner-bell and he walked quietly into the dining-room trying to make as little noise and to attract as little attention from his aunt as possible; but she fastened her eyes at once upon his feet.

“What are you doing with your shoes on, William?” she asked.

Billy glanced nonchalantly at her.

“Don’t you think, Aunt Minerva,” he made answer, “I’s gittin’ too big to go ‘thout any shoes?  I’s mos’ ready to put on long pants, an’ how’d I look, I’d jest like to know, goin’ roun’ barefooted an’ got on long breeches.  I don’ believe I’ll go barefooted no mo’—­I’ll jest wear my shoes ev’y day.”

“I just believe you won’t.  Go take them off at once and hurry back to your dinner.”

“Lemme jest wait tell I eats,” he begged, hoping to postpone the evil hour of exposure.

“No, go at once, and be sure and wash your hands.”

Miss Minerva spied the paint the instant he made his second entrance and immediately inquired, “How did you get that paint on your feet?”

The little boy took his seat at the table and looked up at her with his sweet, attractive, winning smile.