“I can carry one end and the middle if you can manage the rest of it,” answered Jones. “Mr. Benjy wanted to try it, but I wouldn’t let him.” “Who’s Mr. Benjy?” inquired Barry, dubiously lifting an end of the steamer trunk as Jones yawningly rose. “Mr. Lyle. Guess you’d better go first, Locke. Wait until I get the screen door open. All ready? Let’s go!” The sound of the struggle brought Mrs. Lyle from the sitting-room. “Crawford, you’re not trying to get that trunk up by yourself?” she demanded agitatedly. “I told you you mustn’t! You’ll strain your back or――or hurt yourself dreadfully, and――” “It’s all right, Mrs. Lyle. Locke’s here.” “Oh! Well――” Mrs. Lyle retired again, and a murmur of voices came through the open door below. The boys got the trunk up the stairs finally, and then along the hall and into Barry’s room, setting it down, with vast relief, in the darkness. “I’m awfully much obliged,” panted Barry, searching unsuccessfully for a light-switch beside the door. “Don’t mention it. If you’re looking for a button, there isn’t any. Here, let me do it. I know where the thing is. At least, I think I do. Ah, at last!” A none too brilliant radiance appeared, accentuating the bareness of the room. Jones surveyed the scene and shook his head. “Really, Locke,” he protested, “don’t you know that it’s wretchedly bad taste to overfurnish like this? I say――where’s your table?” Barry explained, and Jones chuckled. “Wonder he didn’t take your bureau, too! By the way, don’t be surprised if you find garter-snakes and such harmless things wandering around in here. Toby tries to keep them in bounds, but they will get away from him at times. Where do you want this thing to live?” He kicked Barry’s trunk gently. “What do you think?” asked Barry. “If there were only some place against the wall! But you see how it is. Every inch taken up.” “Isn’t that the truth! Well, we might move the upholstered divan under the front window or edge the buhl cabinet farther to the nor’east. Say, what _is_ a buhl cabinet?” “I don’t know,” said Barry. “I never had one before.” “I see. Well, what do you say?” “Over there in the corner, I guess.” “All right. Careful not to scrape the parquetry, now. Gosh! you careless duffer! you’ve gone and knocked a chip out of the Wedgwood escritoire!” “You’re pretty fairly ignorant,” sighed Barry, as they set the trunk on end. “Wedgwood is pottery stuff. That escritoire is Heppelwhite.” Jones observed the imaginary object intently. “So it is!” he agreed. “A remarkably fine specimen, too. Well, I guess you want to get unpacked, so I’ll leg it.” Barry’s impulse was toward hospitality, but he recalled Clyde’s warning and merely thanked Jones once more for his help. Jones nodded cheerfully and departed and Barry attacked the trunk. Life at Broadmoor, he reflected as he began unpacking, was going to be complicated!