"Sho', seh!" exclaimed the darkey in the lowest note of his mellow voice; "you isn't really in ea'nest about dem ashes, is you?"
Mr. Converse was much in earnest.
"Well, seh," and Sam scratched his bald spot in perplexity, "you all p'leece officehs is sho' a mighty queer lot." Then, with a sudden assumption of his stateliest manner, "Howsomeveh, seh, if you'll please to follow me, I'll be 'bleeged to show you de ash-hopper."
The ashes were of the soft, fluffy white kind that remain after a complete combustion of wood; in this case kept clear of other refuse, and sheltered from the weather, in anticipation of future lye.
"Have the ashes from the kitchen been dumped here since you cleaned the library grate last?" Converse inquired.
"Yes, seh; twicet."
"Very good, Sam. You may go back to the house."
Once alone, Converse picked up a stick and began carefully to rake off the top layer of ashes, penetrating into the heap not more than a quarter of an inch at a time. He repeated this operation no more than four or five times, when he stopped, and with his fingers extracted a conspicuous bit of black—unmistakably the ash of incinerated paper. It was too small to possess any advantage in itself; but it was the counterpart of many minute particles such as he had picked with the point of his pencil from between the bricks of the library fireplace.
After a brief examination he cast the flake of ash aside, and proceeded more carefully to rake over the pile.
"If there is only a larger piece, only one that will show the writing," the delver muttered to himself, "if there is only one that has not been entirely burnt, my search will not have been in vain. But these flakes are all too small and fragile.... No such luck.... Ah-h-h!"