There was no table to dine at, and they ate sitting in two old chairs close to the stove, so that they might refill their tin dishes without getting up. The warmth of the fire was grateful too, for the wind was blowing up outside and the one little window rattled and admitted volleys of air from time to time as the fitful gusts assailed that side of the cabin. They kept enough fire now to diffuse a comforting warmth and to keep the supper hot.
“Do you know,” said Tom, examining the box of salt, “that’s a bait-box. I bet that’s just the kind of a box John Mink used to hide away the money. See, there’s a place for fish-hooks.”
“I hope we didn’t eat any by mistake,” said Brent; “I never cared for those.”
“It helps to prove a connection,” said Tom. “I mean, that old fellow out there spoke of a bait-box and now we find a bait-box here.”
“Did he speak of a bait-box?” Brent asked.
“You know blamed well he did. Listen,” said Tom, resorting to his wallet.
“You’re not going to read the whole thing?”
“No, but listen to this:
“The man’s history and antecedents were not known to the authorities and he came to be known as Treasure Jack because he was forever making vague references to a bait-box full of money which he had once put in the ground. He was harmless and amiable and able to work with his hands at making baskets in the institution.”
“Well, it proves one thing, anyway,” said Brent, glancing at the metal box sideways over his spectacles and not troubling himself to take it from Tom. “I don’t believe a box of that size could be hidden behind the masonry in that well—them’s my sentiments. If old Mink put it there he must have been in a hurry⸺”