It was a jumpy thing to enter that darkened room, with the feeling you couldn't shake off that Old Dibs was peering in at us, and that every minute we'd hear his footstep, everything laid out just as he had last touched them, and almost warm, even to his slippers and his collar and the old hat against the wall. But it made no more difference to Tom than if it had been his own hat, and he tramped in like a policeman, saying, "Where is it, Bill?"
"In one of them two camphor-wood chests," says I.
He lifted up one of them by the end and let it fall ker-bang!
"Not here," says he.
"Try the other," says I, with a sudden sinking.
He let that crash, too, and turning around, looked me in the face.
"Good God, Tom!" said I.
"Just what I suspected all along," said Tom, as savage as a tiger. "He's made way with it!"
We didn't stop to speak another word, but rummaged the whole room upside down.
"He's buried it," says Tom, savager than ever, "and what kind of a bastard was you to let him?"