“No. Here’s the key.”
“And Vivian—I—” Jeanne hesitated, “I’d like to try opening that old churn.”
“Whatever for?” Vivian exclaimed.
“Just a feeling about it.”
“All right. But you won’t break anything?”
“Not a thing.” Jeanne took the key and hurried away, little dreaming that the short wave station she had just seen was to have a large part in the mystery drama that was to be played by the inhabitants of Chippewa Harbor on Isle Royale, in the days that were to come.
Armed with a bottle of kerosene and a small knife, Jeanne slipped into the “museum” and closed the door. It was a wintry spot, that small room, but warmed by her enthusiasm, she began her task without one shiver. Soon she was scraping away at the corroded metal clasps, applying kerosene, scraping again.
For a long time there was not the least sign of success. She was all but ready to give up when, as her stout young hands turned at one screw it gave forth the faintest sort of squeak.
“Oh, you will!” she breathed exultantly. Then she redoubled her efforts.
At the end of another half hour that one clamp was entirely loose. Three others remained. Another half hour and, quite suddenly, as if resistance were no longer possible, two clamps loosened at once. “Oh!” she breathed. “Now I have you!”