Part 6 (1/2)
He had spent most of that afternoon in getting down the boxes from the third floor so that they might be within easier reach of the truckmen when the moving should begin. He was on his way down with one of them, perspiring profusely and tired from the work that had gone before, when, as he neared the lowest step, he slipped and dropped his burden.
He was fortunate enough to scramble out of the way of the box and thus escape injury. But the box itself came to the floor with a crash, and split open.
Drew and Winters sprang to the help of the porter, and were relieved to find that he was not hurt. He rose to his feet, his black face a picture of consternation.
”Dat ole mis'ry in ma back done cotched me jes' when Ah got to de las'
step,” he explained. ”Ah hope dey ain't much damage done to dat 'er box.”
”Pretty badly done up, it seems to me,” remarked Winters, as he surveyed the broken chest critically.
”Never mind, Sam,” consoled Drew. ”It wasn't your fault and the old box wasn't of much account anyway.”
Just then Tyke thrust his head out of his office to learn the meaning of the crash. At the sight of the broken box he came into the shop.
”How did this happen?” he asked.
”Ah couldn't help it, Mistah Grimshaw,” said Sam ruefully. ”Ma back jes' nacherly give way, an' Ah had to let go. Ah'm pow'ful sorry, sah.”
Sam was a favorite with the old man, who refrained from scolding him but stood a moment looking curiously at the box.
”Carry it into the office,” he said at last to Sam. ”And you, Allen, come along.”
CHAPTER VI
THE BROKEN CHEST
Sam lifted the big chest, and, very carefully this time to make amends for his previous dereliction, carried it into the private office. He placed it on two chairs that his employer indicated and then withdrew, closing the door softly behind him and rejoicing at having got off so easily.
”Well, Allen,” remarked Tyke, wiping his gla.s.ses and replacing them on the bridge of his nose, ”you're going to get your wish sooner than either one of us expected.”
”What do you mean?” asked Drew wonderingly.
”Don't you see anything familiar about this box?” replied Tyke, answering a question in Yankee fas.h.i.+on by asking one.
”I don't know that I do,” responded the other. Then, as he bent over to examine the broken chest more closely, he corrected himself.
”Why, yes I do!” he cried eagerly. ”Isn't this the one you pointed out to me the other day as belonging to the man who fought with you against the Malays?”
”That's it,” confirmed Tyke. ”It's Manuel Gomez's box. Queer,” he went on reflectively, ”that of all the chests there were in that loft the only one we thought of looking in should burst open at our very feet. If I was superst.i.tious” (here Drew smothered a smile, for he knew that Tyke was nothing if not superst.i.tious), ”I might think there was some meaning in it. But of course,” he added hastily, ”we know there isn't.”
”Of course,” acquiesced the younger man.
Tyke seemed rather disappointed at this ready a.s.sent.
”Well, anyway, now that it has opened right under our noses, so to speak, we'll look into it. I guess we've got far enough ahead with our moving to take the time.”
Drew, who was burning with curiosity and impatience, agreed with him heartily.
The chest had split close to the lock, so that it was an easy matter after a minute or two of manipulation to throw the cover back.