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- 1097
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T07:57:35.240Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1063
- text
- position is, that within those undue limits the secret closet is
contained.”
I eyed him in silence a moment; then spoke:
“Your survey is concluded, Mr. Scribe; be so good now as to lay your
finger upon the exact part of the chimney wall where you believe this
secret closet to be; or would a witch-hazel wand assist you, Mr.
Scribe?”
“No, Sir, but a crowbar would,” he, with temper, rejoined.
Here, now, thought I to myself, the cat leaps out of the bag. I looked
at him with a calm glance, under which he seemed somewhat uneasy. More
than ever now I suspected a plot. I remembered what my wife had said
about abiding by the decision of Mr. Scribe. In a bland way, I resolved
to buy up the decision of Mr. Scribe.
“Sir,” said I, “really, I am much obliged to you for this survey. It
has quite set my mind at rest. And no doubt you, too, Mr. Scribe, must
feel much relieved. Sir,” I added, “you have made three visits to the
chimney. With a business man, time is money. Here are fifty dollars,
Mr. Scribe. Nay, take it. You have earned it. Your opinion is worth it.
And by the way,”—as he modestly received the money—“have you any
objections to give me a—a—little certificate—something, say, like a
steamboat certificate, certifying that you, a competent surveyor, have
surveyed my chimney, and found no reason to believe any unsoundness; in
short, any—any secret closet in it. Would you be so kind, Mr. Scribe?”
“But, but, sir,” stammered he with honest hesitation.
“Here, here are pen and paper,” said I, with entire assurance.
Enough.
- title
- Chunk 2