He often spoke about that. The old man wasn't a
plasterer, you know--just a labourer. He was digging a basement.
It was a funny basement--a sort of blind cellar. There was a stone
wall right across the middle, and then there was a door of wood to
look like stone. You can go down into the back cellar, but not
into the front. If you don't know about the door, you'll never
find it. Dad often spoke about that. He was working in the back
cellar when he found this. 'Twas sticking in some blue clay."
"Where was this place? Do you remember?"
"Sure. 'Twas in Chatterton Place. Pat and I was kids then; we took
the old man's dinner."
"Do you know the number?"
"It didn't have no number; but I know the place. 'Tis a two-story
house, and was built in 'ninety-one."
I nodded. "And afterwards you moved to Oakland?"
"Yes."
"Did your father ever speak of the reason for this partition in
the cellar?"
"He never knew of one. It was none of his business. He was merely
a labourer, and did what he was paid for."
"Do you know who built it?"
"Some old guy. He was a cranky cuss with side-whiskers. He used to
wear a stove-pipe hat. I think he was a chemist. Whenever he
showed up he would run us kids out of the building. I think he was
a bachelor."
This was all the information he could give, but it was a great
deal. Certainly it was more than I had hoped for.
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