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           IwishedthatIhadScudder’scourage,forIamfreetoconfessIdidn’tfeelanygreatfortitude.TheonlythingthatkeptmegoingwasthatIwasprettyfurious.Itmademeboilwithragetothinkofthosethreespiesgettingthepullonmelikethis.IhopedthatatanyrateImightbeabletotwistoneoftheirnecksbeforetheydownedme.

           ThemoreIthoughtofittheangrierIgrew,andIhadtogetupandmoveabouttheroom.Itriedtheshutters,buttheywerethekindthatlockwithakey,andIcouldn’tmovethem.Fromtheoutsidecamethefaintcluckingofhensinthewarmsun.ThenIgropedamongthesacksandboxes.Icouldn’topenthelatter,andthesacksseemedtobefullofthingslikedog-biscuitsthatsmeltofcinnamon.But,asIcircumnavigatedtheroom,Ifoundahandleinthewallwhichseemedworthinvestigating.

           Itwasthedoorofawallcupboard—whattheycalla“press”inScotland—anditwaslocked.Ishookit,anditseemedratherflimsy.ForwantofsomethingbettertodoIputoutmystrengthonthatdoor,gettingsomepurchaseonthehandlebyloopingmybracesroundit.PresentlythethinggavewithacrashwhichIthoughtwouldbringinmywarderstoinquire.Iwaitedforabit,andthenstartedtoexplorethecupboardshelves.

           Therewasamultitudeofqueerthingsthere.Ifoundanoddvestaortwoinmytrouserpocketsandstruckalight.Itwasoutinasecond,butitshowedmeonething.Therewasalittlestockofelectrictorchesononeshelf.Ipickedupone,andfounditwasinworkingorder.