“What have you got there?” asked my father from below.
I told him. It was Sunday. My story at least was true.
“Come down at once!” said he.
I descended, finding many more difficulties to overcome than I had discovered in my ascent.
My father waxed impatient.
“Can’t you get down any quicker than that?” he asked. He had a book on rose-growing in his hand, which, being quite true, he was taking out on that glorious afternoon to read and enjoy in the garden.
With all respect, I told him that I did not want to break my neck and I continued slowly with my laborious descent. When I reached the ground, he eyed me suspiciously.
“How dare you read the paper on Sunday?” he asked.
“I was only reading the police reports,” said I, humbly; “I thought they were true.”
He held out his hand expressively. I timidly put forth mine, thinking he wanted to congratulate me on my taste.