“Well, I’m sorry.  I thought it was a red handkerchief.  It looked like a red handkerchief.  Well, how could I know it wasn’t a red handkerchief?  I’ve given it her back.  It’s all right, Jumble’s only bit one end of it.  And that’s only jam what dropped on it.  Well, it’ll wash, won’t it?  Well, I’ve said I’m sorry.

“I don’t get much thanks,” William continued bitterly.  “Me givin’ up my half holiday to helpin’ you removin’, an’ I don’t get much thanks!”

“Well, William,” said Mrs. Brown, “you can go to the new house with the first van.  He’ll be less in the way there,” she confided distractedly to the world in general.

William was delighted with this proposal.  At the new house there was a fresh set of men to unload the van, and there was the thrill of making their acquaintance.

Then the front gate was only just painted and bore a notice “Wet Paint.”  It was, of course, incumbent upon William to test personally the wetness of the paint.  His trousers bore testimony to the testing to their last day, in spite of many applications of turpentine.  Jumble also tested it, and had in fact to be disconnected with the front gate by means of a pair of scissors.  For many weeks the first thing that visitors to the Brown household saw was a little tuft of Jumble’s hair adorning the front gate.

William then proceeded to “help” to the utmost of his power.  He stumbled up from the van to the house staggering under the weight of a medicine cupboard, and leaving a trail of broken bottles and little pools of medicine behind.  Jumble sampled many of the latter and became somewhat thoughtful.

It was found that the door of a small bedroom at the top of the stairs was locked, and this fact (added to Mr. Jones’ failure to return from his lemonade) rather impeded the progress of the unpackers.

“Brike it open,” suggested one.

“Better not.”

“Per’aps the key’s insoide,” suggested another brightly.

William had one of his brilliant ideas.

“Tell you what I’ll do,” he said eagerly and importantly.  “I’ll climb up to the roof an’ get down the chimney an’ open it from the inside.”

They greeted the proposal with guffaws.

They did not know William.

It was growing dusk when Mrs. Brown and Ethel and the second van load appeared.

“What is that on the gate?” said Ethel, stooping to examine the part of Jumble’s coat that brightened up the dulness of the black paint.

“It’s that dog!” she said.

Then came a ghost-like cry, apparently from the heavens.

“Mother!”

Mrs. Brown raised a startled countenance to the skies.  There seemed to be nothing in the skies that could have addressed her.

Then she suddenly saw a small face peering down over the coping of the roof.  It was a face that was very frightened, under a superficial covering of soot.  It was William’s face.