“Looks like a new kind o’ compressor,” began Andy, his face beaming. “I think I—”
“Andy, come right along up to the house and help us get things in order,” commanded his mother. “Did you ever see so much rubbish?” she added, turning to Mrs. Anderson and gathering up her skirts anew. “All this stuff must have cost a lot of money. Is it worth anything now?” she asked, peering timidly into the disorderly shop once more.
“The tools are worth something,” answered Captain Anderson. “As for the other things, I guess they ain’t good for anything except junk.”
They were on their way back to the house, Andy tagging behind and thinking. Finally he touched the captain on the arm.
“Don’t you be too sure about that ‘junk’ business.”
“Did you find anything?” asked the captain, with a smile.
“I didn’t,” answered the boy, “but my uncle didn’t keep that place goin’ just to kill time. You can bet there are ideas buried somewhere in that stuff.”
“And you are goin’ to dig ’em up?” laughed Captain Anderson.
“There ain’t any law against tryin’,” retorted Andy, red in the face, “and if my mother tries to sell that shanty or the ‘junk’ in it before I’m through with it, she’s agoin’ to strike a snag.”
The negro, Ba, had carried the trunks to the gallery, where a council was now held. The only food in the house was a few tins of fruit and vegetables and some ant-infested sugar. The entire place was much in need of soap, water, and broom. The bedding did not meet Mrs. Leighton’s approval. Besides, there was but one bed in the house.