“No, Alvirah, I didn’t do it, of course not,” Mr. Peterkin hastened to say. “It was a couple of boys. Tom Davis and a friend of his. They were playing ball back of the fence and——”
“And they’ve run off now, I’ll venture!” exclaimed the rasping voice of Mrs. Peterkin.
“No—no, I don’t think so, Alvirah,” said Mr. Peterkin mildly. “I—I rather think they’re there yet. I asked ’em if they didn’t want to run and——”
“You—asked them—if—they—didn’t—want—to—run?” gasped Mrs. Peterkin, as if unable to believe his words. “Why, the very—idea!”
“Oh, I knew they’d pay for any damage they did,” said her husband quickly, “and I—er—I sort of thought—well, anyhow they’re over there,” and he pointed to the fence.
“Let me see them! Let me talk to them!” demanded Mrs. Peterkin.
“Stand on that soap box an’ ye kin see over the fence,” said Mr. Peterkin. “But look out. The bottom is sort of soft an’ ye may——”
He did not finish his sentence. The very accident he feared had happened. Mrs. Peterkin, being a large and heavy woman, had stepped in the middle of the box. The bottom boards, being old, had given way and there she was—stuck with both feet in the soap box.
“Ebenezer!” she cried. “Help me! Don’t you know any better than to stand there staring at me? Haven’t you got any senses?”
“Of course I’ll help you, Alvirah,” he said. “I rather thought you’d go through that box.”