His task was
one that numbed his hands before the last of the three locks was
broken. He dragged the chest more into the light and opened it. He was
disappointed. At first glance he could not understand why Conniston had
locked it at all. It was almost empty, so nearly empty that he could
see the bottom of it, and the first object that met his eyes was an
insult to his expectations--an old sock with a huge hole in the toe of
it. Under the sock was an old fur cap not of the kind worn north of
Montreal. There was a chain with a dog-collar attached to it, a
hip-pocket pistol and a huge forty-five, and not less than a hundred
cartridges of indiscriminate calibers scattered loosely about. At one
end, bundled in carelessly, was a pair of riding-breeches, and under
the breeches a pair of white shoes with rubber soles. There was neither
sentiment nor reason to the collection in the chest. It was junk. Even
the big forty-five had a broken hammer, and the pistol, Keith thought,
might have stunned a fly at close range. He pawed the things over with
the cold chisel, and the last thing he came upon--buried under what
looked like a cast-off sport shirt--was a pasteboard shoe box.
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