In came Andy, an imaginary pistol in each hand. "Bang!" he cried, shooting his mother. "Bang! Bang! You're all dead. Aren't there any pancakes?"
"Come eat your cereal. I'm keeping your eggs and bacon hot for you out in the kitchen," said his mother. "Tuck your napkin under your chin. I don't want you to spill milk on your clean shirt. You should be thankful you have such a good breakfast. Plenty of children would be glad to have less."
"I'm not plenty of children. I'm me." Andy looked up and met Jerry's accusing gaze with a wide smile. Andy never remembered yesterday's mischief. Each day was brand-new to Andy.
"It will be harder than ever to get him to own up to what he did over at the Bullfinches'," thought Jerry.
Andy knew the way to school and usually Jerry walked to school with boys his own age while Andy poked along alone or with one of his fellow kindergartners. But today when Andy had kissed his mother good-by and had come out the back door, Jerry was waiting for him.
"I've got to hurry. I don't want to be late," said Andy, whose lateness had seldom worried him before.
"We've got loads of time. Now, look here, Andy. I'm in a jam and you're the only one who can help me."
Being talked to as his big brother's equal pleased Andy. "What you want me to do?"
Jerry described vividly how unjustly Mr. Bullfinch had blamed him for getting into his house and breaking the Sousa record. "He's awfully down on me now," said Jerry. "Do you think it's fair for me to be blamed for something I didn't do?"
"Just tell him somebody else must have done it," suggested Andy.