“He’s after a mouse!” thought John excitedly. And he, too, dived into the darkness after the cat, who had disappeared. But Caliban had scuttled into some hole too small for John to enter. John could hear him still scratching and sniffing. And an occasional squeak betrayed the misfortune of some long-tailed dweller in the garret that Caliban had taken by surprise. John got down on his hands and knees the better to investigate that corner. But still he could not spy the cat and his prey. He only bumped his nose against the low beams, and got his mouth full of cobwebs. But in that dark hiding-place he came upon an unexpected thing. This was something that at first he took to be a bicycle. But he soon found by feeling of it that there was but one wheel, and that it was made of wood. At one end was a curious bunch of what felt like long hair; it made John shudder. But presently he remembered. “It must be a spinning-wheel,” said John to himself. “I remember seeing one in the picture of Priscilla and John Alden.” Just then he bumped his head on something hard. “What is this great long-handled pan?” he said. “I’ve seen those in the curiosity shops, too. Hello! Here’s a cradle, the kind that rocks. I’ve seen those in pictures. And here’s a pair of andirons. My! this is a regular old curiosity shop. These things must be worth a lot of money.” Then a sudden wonderful idea popped into John’s head. “Why can’t we sell them, if they are worth a lot of money? Why, of course we can sell them, and save Mary’s hundred dollars! Maybe that is just what old Caliban knew, when he coaxed me to follow him up here. Say, you old rascal, where are you? Here, ’Ban! ’Ban! Come on out and let me see what you think about it!” But Caliban had disappeared with his mouse, or whatever it was, which had ceased to squeak. And there was nothing but darkness and silence in the old attic beside the little boy and that strange litter of ancient things. John looked around and shivered. “I guess I’ll be going,” he said. “I won’t stop to examine anything more. They all belong to Mother. I’ll let her do the looking-up. I’ll run down and tell her what I’ve found.” And hurrying as fast as he could out of the dark corner, where the cobwebs and the dust were trying to keep intruders away from the old things to which they clung, John made for the attic stairs. Two or three times he thought he heard strange noises behind him, and he couldn’t go fast enough. Probably it was Caliban still scratching in some dark subway under the rafters. But John had no wish to stop and investigate. He came clattering down the stairs, and burst into his mother’s room. “Mother!” he cried, “I’ve found something!” “Goodness, John!” she said. “What a dirty face you have, and your eyebrows are all cobwebby. Where in the world have you been, and what have you found?”