If
they were still there, with other tangible proofs of an adolescent
intimacy, he saw no reason why he should not lay eyes,--or even
hands,--upon them. He saw no wrong in the undertaking. It was a
justifiable adventure, viewed from the standpoint of a lover whose
claim was in doubt.
The back door was locked and the window shutters securely nailed.
Entrance to the cellar was barred by heavy scantlings fastened across
the sloping hatch. In the barnyard he found a stout single-tree.
With this he succeeded in prying off the two scantlings. The staple
holding the padlock was easily withdrawn from one of the rotten
boards.
Descending the steps, he found himself in the small, musty cellar.
The vault-like room was empty save for a couple of barrels standing
in a corner and a small pile of firewood under the stairs that led
to regions above. Selecting a faggot of kindling-wood from this
pile, he fashioned a torch by whittling the end into a confusion
of partially detached slivers. This he lighted with a match, and
then mounted the stairs.
The door at the head opened at the lifting of an old-fashioned
latch. A thick screen of cobwebs almost closed the upper half of
the aperture. He burnt it away with the flaming torch, and passed
on into the kitchen. He was grateful for the snapping fire of the
faggot, for otherwise the silence of the grave would have fallen
about him as he stood motionless for a moment peering about the
empty room.
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