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 time?" asked Mrs. Davis, sweetly. "Her birthday is to-morrow, you know, and I give her a silver spoon on every birthday." And then she waited again.

Dad's arms were getting tired, I noticed, for he changed hands oftener than he did at first, and his knees kept bending; but he straightened them out quick every time, for they shortened his height.

Mrs. Davis said, "H-m?"

"But you see, I—I can't come down," said Dad.

"You got to finish what you're doing up there now?" she asked, and her voice sounded sorry.

"Chet," said Dad, "hold that ladder still! I say, Mrs. Davis, that I can't come down,—I'm not able,—I—I haven't anything to hold on to;—see—" and he gave his foot another jerk, for the lady.

Mrs. Davis came closer and put on her glasses. "Why don't you just put your foot down on the next step?" she asked.

Dad didn't answer,—he just stood there with his hands above his head, looking like Hercules holding up the world, only it was on the tips of his fingers, instead of his shoulders.