“I was shut in one for pinching Frankie Ames,” I acknowledged.
“I was in one for getting iron-rust on my skirt,” said Calista, “and for being awful cross when my bath was, and for putting sugar on the stove to get the nice smell.”
“I was in one for telling a lie,” Betty admitted reluctantly. “And Margaret Amelia was in one for wading in the creek. She was in a downstairs one. And I took a chair round outside to help her out—but she wouldn’t do it.”
“Pooh! I was in one lots of times,” Delia capped it. And, as usual, we looked at her with respect as having experiences far transcending our own. “I’ll be in one again if I don’t go home and take care of my canary,” she added. “Mamma said I would.”
“Putting sugar on the stove isn’t as wicked as telling a lie, is it?” Mary Elizabeth inquired.
We weighed it. On the whole, we were inclined to think that it was not so wicked, “though,” Delia put in, “you do notice the sugar more.”
“Why do they shut you in the same way for the different wickeds?” Mary Elizabeth demanded.
None of us knew, but it was Delia who had the theory.
“Well,” she said, “you’ve got to know you’re wicked. It don’t make any difference how wicked. Because you stop anyhow.”
“No, you don’t,” Betty said decidedly, “you’re always getting a new thing to be shut in about. Before you mean to,” she added perplexedly.