Peabody, slumbered heavily.
Bob slipped down the stairs, waking no one, unfastened the heavy
front door, never locked and only occasionally, as to-night, bolted
with a chain, and stepped softly around to the bush where his
precious tin box was buried.
This box was Bob's sole inheritance from his mother, and he had only
a vague knowledge of the papers entrusted to it. Among the yellowed
slips was the marriage certificate of his parents, and he knew that
there were one or two letters. When Joseph Peabody had taken him from
the poorhouse, the lad had buried the box for safekeeping, and during
the three or four years he had been with Mr. Peabody had never taken
it up.
It was not buried very deeply, and he easily uncovered it, smoothing
down the earth to hide the traces of his hasty excavating. He went
around to Betty's window and whistled softly, half hoping that she
might be asleep.
"Hello, Bob dear!" she called instantly, leaning from the window,
her vivid face so alight with affection and hope for him that it was
a pity he could not see her clearly. "I'm wishing you the best of
luck, and I hope the old bookstore man has splendid news for you. You
wait for me in Washington.
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