They disappeared in the next room and the murmur of their voices, with the moving of a heavy chest and the stir of papers, came out. Andy cast a vicious eye at Juno. He half rose and took a step on tiptoe. But the bedroom door opened again and he sat down. “I haven’t hauled a trap—nor set one—since the season closed,” said Uncle William’s voice. “That’s all right, Mr. Benslow. But I have reason to think.... I’d better make a thorough search—since I am here,” he finished quietly. “You search all you want to,” said Uncle William cordially—“Get away, Juno.” He pushed her aside with his foot. “This is my sink cupboard,” he opened the door hospitably. “Lucky I washed some of the dishes this morning,” he said, “You would ’a’ had a time if I hadn’t!” The man reached in and drew out a pile of plates. His nose lifted itself as he set them down and reached in again. He emerged with a quiet look in his face—“I shall have to trouble you to take out all the things in that cupboard,” he said with a motion of his hand. Uncle William’s face had dropped a little. “I most knew you ’d want me to do that,” he said, “I o’ ’t to ’a’ done it, this morning, before you came.” The man laughed out. “That’s all right, Mr. Benslow. I don’t mind your bluffing—as long as you play fair. But that cupboard is a give-away, dead easy.” Uncle William sighed a little. “I wish had my clam-rake,” he said. The man stared at him— “I gen’ally use my clam-rake to haul ’em out,” explained Uncle William kindly. “I can shove ’em in with the broom or a stick of wood or most anything, but it’s kind o’ hard gettin’ ’em out—specially for a big man like me—” He reached in and drew out an ample armful—dippers and pans and plates and spoons and bowls—then another armful—mostly tinware and kettles—and then a third—spreading them on the floor about him with lavish hand. Now and then he stopped to exclaim over some lost treasure as it came to light. If doom must come, Uncle William did not propose to meet it more than half way nor with gloomy countenance. The fish-warden watched him with his little cynical smile, and Andy hitched uneasily in his chair. “There—” Uncle William drew a breath and emerged from the cupboard. “That’s the last one I can reach—without my rake. You get in, Andy. You’re smaller ’n I be.” Andy took firm hold of the seat of his chair. “I don’t want to, Willum.” “Oh yes, you get right in and fetch ’em out, Andy. I’ll hold the candle for ye.” Uncle William lighted a candle and Andy crawled miserably into the depths. His voice came out, gloomy and protesting, as he handed out a few last articles. Then there was a long pause and a sound of scraping on the boards. Uncle William withdrew the candle. “He’s comin’ out,” he said. The fish-warden bent forward, a look of quick interest in his face.