"To get them out, of course," says Ruth.
"Well, if girls ain't queer! Queerer than cats!"
"Hush!" said Ruth, softly. "I believe—but I don't dare say a word yet—there's something there!"
"Of course there is. Two little yowling—"
"Something we all want found, Steve," Ruth whispered, earnestly. "But I don't know. Do hush! Make haste!"
Stephen put down his face to the crack, and took a peep. Rather a long serious peep. When he took his face back again, "I see something," he said. "It's white paper. Kind of white, that is. Do you suppose, Ruth—? My cracky! if you do!"
"We won't suppose," said Ruth. "We'll hammer."
Stephen knocked up the end of the board with the mallet, and then he got the wedge under and pried. Ruth pulled. Stephen kept hammering and prying, and Ruth held on to all he gained, until they slipped the wedge along gradually, to where the board was nailed again, to the middle joist or stringer. Then a few more vigorous strokes, and a little smart levering, and the nails loosened, and one good wrench lifted it from the inside timber and they slid it out from under the house-boarding.
Underneath lay a long, folded paper, much covered with drifts of dust, and speckled somewhat with damp. But it was a dry, sandy place, and weather had not badly injured it.
"Stephen, I am sure!" said Ruth, holding Stephen back by the arm. "Don't touch it, though! Let it be, right there. Look at that corner, that lies opened up a little. Isn't that grandfather's writing?"