emselves in its
deepest shadow.

Mrs. Morton came patiently home to attend to the needs of her favorite
son.

"What is it, Ernest?"

"Where did you put our Sunday clothes?"

"Dear me, aren't they in the closet?"

"In the closet? Do you suppose I'd call you home if they were in the
closet? They aren't anywhere!" Ernest's tone verged on the
disrespectful.

Mrs. Morton toiled upstairs with a sigh. Was there to be a repetition of
the bread episode?

Ernest had spoken the truth, the aforesaid clothes were not anywhere.
The boys exchanged glances both wrathful and sheepish. Ernest had
already exhausted every swear word that his mother's presence permitted.
Sherm, also restrained by her presence--he had retired to bed while she
searched their room and closet--thought all the exclamations he
hesitated to utter. Three young young ladies in the arbor beneath
listened to such fragments of conversation as floated down to them with
unholy glee.

"Well, Ernest, they're certainly not here; I'll go look in Chicken
Little's room."

Ernest accompanied her. Sherm scrambled out of bed and speedily resumed
his ordinary wearing apparel. He was startled to perceive a bulky object
suddenly darken their window. It was a peculiar-looking bundle from
which coat sleeves and trousers' legs dangled indiscriminately. He had
no difficulty in recognizing their missing clothes. He rushed to the
window and raised the screen, calling to Ernest excitedly. He half
expected to see the things disappear as mysteriously as they had come,
but the bundle remained stationary. It had been raised to the window by
means of a pulley contrived from an old clothes line and the hanging
basket hook. The end of the cord was hidden in the arbor.

The boys secured their possessions, hastily assuring themselves that
they were all there. Mrs. Morton started thankfully downstairs, but had
barely reached the foot when a vigorous exclamation and a loud "Mother!"
recalled her.

Mrs. Morton had never seen Ernest so furious. Sherm didn't say much, but
his face was wrathfully red.

"What now?"

"Look at this!" Ernest's voice was tragic as he held the garment up to
view. His trousers' legs had been neatly stitched across twice on the
sewing machine. Sherm's, ditto. All four pair of sleeves were also
carefully stitched with a tight tension, so they could not be readily
ripped out.

Mrs. Morton looked aghast. "It will take an hour to get that out!"

"Confound thos