HE WAS CLEAR BACK TO the hotel before he got a grip on himself—and then he was drunk with delight. Honest Harse! Splendidly trustable Harse! Why, all this time, Mooney had been so worried, had worked so hard—and the whole survival kit was his, after all!
He had touched it gingerly before picking it up but it didn’t shock him; clearly the protective devices, whatever they were, were off.
He sweated over it for an hour and a half, looking for levers, buttons, a slit that he might pry wider with the blade of a knife. At last he kicked it and yelled, past endurance: “Open up, damn you!”
It opened wide on the floor before him.
“Oh, bless your heart!” cried Mooney, falling to his knees to drag out the string of wampum, the little mechanical mice, the viewing-machine sort of thing. Treasures
