“Abiel’s house is about two mile from here by the road. I tell ye what ye can do. Ye may as well see ’em now’s ever. I’ll walk cross-lots an’ you drive there. Go on down the road a piece an’ turn the fust road ter the right. ’Tain’t much of a road—it’s kind of a lane. Go on to the fust house ye come to. I’d better come, ’cause mebbe Abiel wouldn’t let ye see ’em ef ye went alone.”
We left him and drove on and down through the narrow, grass-grown lane. When we reached the old gray farm-house we found it deserted and still, so we sat down on the stone doorstep and waited for Elam Chadsey, and soon he climbed over the stone wall before us.
“Ain’t Abiel at hum? All the better! We’ll go in ’n’ see the preserve-jars, an’ then he won’t know any city folks want ’em an’ won’t put the price up on ye.”
He prowled around the house, trying in vain to open first the doors and then the windows, but to his amazement he found all carefully locked.
“The ninny!” he said, indignantly, “he ain’t got nothin’ to steal! What did he lock up fur? I never heard of such a thing—lockin’ up in the daytime; it makes me mad. The dresser stan’s right in that room and them jars is on top of it; ef ye could only see in that window ye could look right at it, then ye’d know whether ye wanted ’em or not.”
“Isn’t there anything I could climb up on?” doubtfully I asked.
He searched in the wood-shed for a ladder, but with no success. At last he called out: “I guess ef you two’ll help me a little we can pull this around fur ye to stand on.”
“This” was a hen-coop or hen-house, evidently in present use as a hen-habitation. Its sides were about four feet high, and from them ran up a pointed roof, the highest peak of which was about five feet and a half from the ground.
“There,” he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he pushed it under the window, “ef ye can git up an’ stan’ on that ye can see in. Then”—vindictively—“we’ll leave it here fur Abiel to drag back himself, to pay him fur bein’ such a gump as to lock his doors. I guess it’ll hold ye, ef ye are pretty hefty.”
I may as well state the annoying fact that to be “pretty hefty” is a great drawback in searches after “antiques.” You cannot climb up narrow, steep ladders and through square holes into treasure-holding attic-lofts, as may a slender antique-hunter. You must remain patiently below and let her shout down, telling and describing what is above. It is such a trial to an explorer to have to explore by proxy, especially when you know you could discover more than anyone else could. I determined that “heft” should be no obstacle to me in this case, though the hen-house did look rather steep and high; and I bravely started to climb. I placed one knee, then the other, and then my feet upon the ledge at the edge of the roof, while Elam Chadsey pushed. He weighed about one hundred pounds, and was thin, wizened, and wrinkled to the last New England degree. He braced his feet firmly in the ground, set his teeth, and pushed with might and main. Alone I scaled the second height. I had barely set my feet firmly on the peak of the roof, had shaded my eyes from the sunlight with one hand, while I clung to the window-frame with the other, had caught one glimpse of a row of blue-and-white apothecary jars, when—crack!—smash! went the frail roof under my feet, and down I went—down into the hen-house!