Johnny picked himself up from the rag rug before the fireplace. He went over and stood before his mother. His blue eyes danced. This was one scolding that he looked forward to.
"Now tell me the truth. What do you mean by—"
Sarah paused. She could hardly scold her son for walking on the ceiling.
Johnny had been told exactly what to say. "I got my feet all muddy down at the horse trough," he explained. "Then I walked on the ceiling."
"You walked on the ceiling? Johnny Johnston, you know it's wicked to lie."
"I'm not lying. Those are my footprints."
Sarah looked again. The footprints were too small to belong to anyone but Johnny. She looked at Abe. He seemed to have taken a sudden liking for boiled potatoes and kept his eyes on his plate.
"Abe Lincoln, is this some of your tomfoolery?"
"I—I reckon so."
"But how—"