The flash of second-sight which should be possessed by all true antique-lovers, and which almost never deserts me except when I am confronted by a reproduction so perfect as to deceive even the man who made it, warned me that this chest was probably something very rare and unusual, and possibly even a most important piece of Americana. With an air of careless unconcern perfected by years of antique-hunting—an air, I may add, which must be cultivated by all persons who hope to make a success of antiqueing—I obtained from my friend L—— complete directions as to the location of the House Of The Chest. As soon as L—— had gone on his way, I dropped my air of unconcern, snatched up a pint flask of gin, which I find to be of inestimable value in dealing with the stern and rockbound New-Englanders, and hastened at once to Sunkset.
It was a brisk autumn day, and the odor of stinkbush was particularly apparent as I made my way through the grove of trees which surrounded the Elon D. Whipplefish house. I shall never smell stinkbush again without thinking of that red letter day; though I must confess that at the time it depressed me slightly.
Mr. Whipplefish was seated in his beautiful old kitchen with his feet resting comfortably in a beautiful old brick oven; and as I knocked at his back door, he cried out in his kindly New England manner that he didn’t want any, and to go away. Pretending to misunderstand his words, I opened the door and walked in. Then, lest there be any unpleasantness, I dropped my hat as though by accident, and in stooping to pick it up permitted the pint flask of gin to slip from my breast pocket and fall into my hat. This is a gesture which has saved the day for me on many and many an occasion where all seemed to be lost save honor. A few days of practice will enable any one to drop a pint flask from his breast pocket and catch it unharmed in his hat with the utmost nonchalance.
Having done this, I affected great embarrassment and looked at the flask ruefully, as though it had betrayed me in an embarrassing manner. Mr. Whipplefish’s manner at once became more affable, and he asked me with gruff Cape Cod hospitality what I wanted.
One thing led to another, and by the time we had consumed the pint of gin, he was permitting me to examine the furnishings of his home without protest.
The briefest examination of the topless and legless chest sufficed to convince me that I had encountered a genuine treasure. All of the worm-holes of the tertiary class bore the unmistakable stigmata of the Dutch worms of the first quarter of the seventeenth century. Those familiar with Dr. Christian Eisenbach’s† monumental work on the furniture worm will recall that a peculiar recurrence of frosts during several successive winters in Holland so affected the nervous systems of the Dutch furniture worms that they bored to the left in successive échelons, or steps, and cut into the borings of the worms beyond them.
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† Bores and Borings. Dr. Christian Eisenbach. Leipzig, 1847.
The best test of the Dutch worm of the first quarter of the seventeenth century is to place the forefinger over any worm-hole in a given space, place the lips over the worm-hole next to the left of the obstructed orifice, and blow firmly into it. If the hole is a true Dutch hole of the early seventeenth century, a small cloud of dust will emerge from the hole next to the one in which the blower is blowing and will usually enter his eye.
If it is not a seventeenth-century Dutch hole, the blower can blow all day without obtaining any noteworthy results except a flushed face.