“But Ruthie laid that old ghost,” said Tess with scorn. “And it wasn’t anything—much. But this—”
Dot, who had examined the wet marks and lumps of snow on the lower treads of the garret stairs, suddenly squealed:
“Oh, looky here! ’Tisn’t a ghost, but ’tis a goat! Those are Billy Bumps’ footsteps! Of course they are!”
“Sammy Pinkney!” was the chorus of voices, even Uncle Rufus joining in. Then he added:
“Dat boy is de beatenes’! How come he make dat goat climb all dese stairs?”
“Why,” said Dot, “Billy Bumps can climb right up on the roof of the hen houses. He can climb just like a—a—well, just like a goat! Coming upstairs isn’t anything hard for Billy Bumps.”
“Sammy Pinkney, you come down from there with that goat!” commanded Tess sternly. “What do you suppose Ruthie or Mrs. MacCall will say?”
The door swung open above, and the wan daylight which entered by the small garret windows revealed Sammy Pinkney, plump, sturdy and freckled, stooping to look down at the startled group at the top of the stairs.
“I spy Sammy!” cried Dot shrilly, just remembering that they were playing hide and seek—or had been.
But somebody else spied Sammy at that moment, too. The mischievous boy had led Billy Bumps, the goat, up three long flights of stairs and turned him loose to go tap, tap, tapping about the bare attic floor on his hard little hoofs.