look after his corn and potatoes,
while his assistant, it appeared, served in the double capacity of
helper and hired man.

But they were a suitable team for the work in hand--reconstruction on an
old house that had been put up mainly with an ax and a trowel, by thumb
measure, having probably never known anything so prosaic as a
spirit-level and a square. We began on the large room--that is to say,
the old kitchen, which was to be the new living-room, and in a very
little while had the prehistoric pantry and sink ripped out and the big
hole patched in the plaster, for our boss carpenter was a gifted man,
qualified for general repairs.

No, on second thought, we did not rip out quite all the old pantry.
There were some whitewood shelves that had been put there to stay, and
in the century or so of their occupancy appeared to have grown to the
other woodwork. Considering them a little, and the fact that it would
require an ax and perhaps dynamite to dislodge them, I had an
inspiration. Modified a little, they would make excellent bric-a-brac
and book shelves and serve a new and beautiful use through all the
centuries we expected to live there. I feverishly began drawing designs,
and the chief carpenter and I undertook this fine-art and literary
corner at once, so that it might be finished and a surprise for
Elizabeth and the others when they came. It was well that we did so, for
it was no light matter to reduce the width of those shelves. Whitewood
is not hard when fresh, but this had seasoned with the generations until
it was as easy to saw as dried horn--just about--and we took turns at
it, and the sweat got in my eyes, and I would have sent for the ax and
the dynamite if I hadn't passed my word.

Meantime, the helper, whose name was Henry Jones, was hewing an oaken
cross-beam which supported the ceiling, and which I could not pass under
without violently knocking my head. I am satisfied that the original
builders of that house were short people, or they would have planned
the old kitchen a few inches higher. But then I am always knocking my
head nearly off against something. I have left gleanings from it on the
sharp edges of a thousand swinging signs and on the cruel filigree of as
many low-hung chandeliers. My slightly bald spot, due to severe mental
effort, or something, if examined closely would be found to resemble an
old battlefield in France. But this is digression. As I was saying,
Henry Jones was hewing at t