"Oh, where are you?" cried Parker, as Margy kept on screaming.
"I don't know what you call it, but I'm in it," said the little girl, in that queer, faraway voice.
"But where is it?" asked Parker, for, somehow, the voice seemed to come from somewhere between the laundry and the kitchen.
"It's that thing you pull up and down with soap and starch and clothes on," said Margy. "I got in it to have a ride, but my leg is stuck and I can't get out and, oh, dear! I want my mother!"
"Yes, and I guess I want her, too!" exclaimed Parker. "Oh, my! This is worse than having the chimney on fire. I'll go and call your mother, child," she went on, "for I can't see a blessed hair of your head. Though you must be somewhere around, and maybe hiding to fool me."
"Oh, no, I'm not hiding," answered Margy, who, it seems, could hear Parker very well. "I'm in the pull-up-and-let-down-thing, and I want to get out!"
But Parker did not stay to listen. She ran out to the side porch, where Aunt Jo and Mrs. Bunker were sewing, and cried:
"Oh, come quick! The poor child's caught and can't get out and I can't see her!"
"Where is she? What happened?" asked Aunt Jo and Mrs. Bunker.
"She's somewhere between the laundry and the kitchen," said the maid. "I can't see her, though I can hear her and——"