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 “Well, I have no time to wait,” said Miss Worthington. “I’ve got to go through the papers that belong in that chest. I’ve got to open it if I smash it.”

The little Scout smiled.

“Mr. Worthington said that chest came from across the ocean with his grandfather’s housekeeping things and it was hand carved and it once belonged to a Queen. If you tried to break it open and damaged it, and if what you found didn’t satisfy the probate judge as to who you are and what you are doin’ here, you’d get yourself into pretty serious trouble, ’cause here in California we begin to train the babies along with their bottles—which are ag’in Nature and I don’t recommend ’em, but I thought they’d sound more polite than mentionin’ the other way—anyhow, we begin to train ‘em that early to pull off their hoods and wave ’em when anybody says ‘Antique.’ We swat ’em on the dome impressive if they don’t. We adore antique chests and tables and chairs and rugs and things, and you better look sharp, ’cause California wouldn’t like it if you abuse anything antique.”

“Say, look here!” said Miss Worthington. “Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m a kid round this neighbourhood. What’s your next?”

“Drag that trunk into the bedroom.”

The Scout Master advanced and stooped to one end of the trunk, looked around and about and said politely: “Kindly take the other end. These rugs are also antique and furniture can’t be dragged over them, and besides