"Don't be shocked, Caleb," said Philip; "we're not mending clothes on Sunday. 'Twill scarcely be an appetizer, apparently, but won't you pass this coat to and fro before your face a moment, and detect an odor, if you can, and tell us what it is?"
Caleb took the coat, did as requested, touched the cloth with his nose, and replied:—
"The pork-house."
"What do you mean?" Philip asked, while Grace turned pale.
"It's the smell of boilin' fat, from the lard-kettles. It's powerful pervadin' of ev'rythin', specially woollen clothes, an' men's hair, when the pork-house windows an' doors are shut. It makes me mortal sick sometimes, when the malary gets a new grip on me; at such times I know a pork-house worker when I pass him in the street in the dark. To save myself from myself I used to wear an oilcloth jacket an' overalls when I worked in the pork-house—your uncle an' I used to have to put in a good many hours there. There was somethin' else I used to do too, when I got to my room, though I never dared to tell your uncle, or he'd never ha' stopped laughin' at me."
"What was it? Tell me—quick!" said Philip.
"Why, I bought a bottle of Floridy water out of the store,—it's a stuff that some of the gals use,—an' I sprinkled a little ev'ry day, mornin' an' evenin', on the carpet."
Philip hurried to a bed-chamber, and came back with Grace's cologne-bottle, the contents of which he bestowed upon the rug under the dining table.
"That ort to kill the rat," said Caleb, approvingly.