“I gen’ally use my clam-rake to haul ’em out,” explained Uncle William kindly. “I can shove ’em in with the broom or a stick of wood or most anything, but it’s kind o’ hard gettin’ ’em out—specially for a big man like me—” He reached in and drew out an ample armful—dippers and pans and plates and spoons and bowls—then another armful—mostly tinware and kettles—and then a third—spreading them on the floor about him with lavish hand. Now and then he stopped to exclaim over some lost treasure as it came to light. If doom must come, Uncle William did not propose to meet it more than half way nor with gloomy countenance.
The fish-warden watched him with his little cynical smile, and Andy hitched uneasily in his chair.
“There—” Uncle William drew a breath and emerged from the cupboard. “That’s the last one I can reach—without my rake. You get in, Andy. You’re smaller ’n I be.”
Andy took firm hold of the seat of his chair. “I don’t want to, Willum.”
“Oh yes, you get right in and fetch ’em out, Andy. I’ll hold the candle for ye.”
Uncle William lighted a candle and Andy crawled miserably into the depths. His voice came out, gloomy and protesting, as he handed out a few last articles. Then there was a long pause and a sound of scraping on the boards.
Uncle William withdrew the candle.
“He’s comin’ out,” he said.
The fish-warden bent forward, a look of quick interest in his face.
Slowly Andy backed into the room and lifted an awed face. In his hand he held a small monse-trap. “There ain’t a durned thing left,” he said, “except this.” He held it up and looked at it—and blinked. Then he laid it down on the table and looked at it again, fondly—and blinked. A large grin stole into his face. “I put that monse-trap there—time Juno run away,” he said—“the time you was down to New York.” He had turned to William.