“What is it?” says I.
He held it out. It wasn’t a bone at all, though it looked like it was made of bone. It was pure white except that at one end, where there was something that looked like a handle, there were figures and funny curlicues carved, and down the whole length of it was a row of things that looked like the Hebrew letters in our family Bible.
“What do you calc’late it is?” says I, taking hold of it.
Mark had one end in his hand, and I had hold of the thing that looked like a handle. It was a handle. When I pulled it moved toward me, and there I stood with the most peculiar-looking knife in my hand that you ever saw. It had a straight blade more than ten inches long, and on the blade, which was new and shiny and polished, were more funny-looking letters.
I dropped it like it was hot.
“It’s a dagger,” says I, and I guess my voice sounded scairt.
“S-somethin’ like that,” says Mark.
“Maybe,” says Binney, looking over my shoulder, “it’s an Indian relic. Maybe it’s been layin’ here for a hundred years.”
“Sure,” says Mark, scornful as anything. “That’s how it got so rusty and battered up. Probably laid in that identical spot since George Washington discovered the Mississippi.”
“He never discovered the Mississippi,” says Binney.