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Penrod exhaled a sigh, as of relief, and, in a manner he had observed his father use sometimes, he said: "Thank goodness, THAT'S off my mind, anyway!" "What we goin' do next, Penrod?" Sam asked deferentially, the borrowed manner having some effect upon him. "I don't know what YOU'RE goin' to do," Penrod returned, picking up the old cigarbox that had contained the paper and pencils.
They are made of straw-work, entirely gilded, or painted black or brown, and picked out with gold; or perhaps pale green, with a bordering of brown. A very pretty one may be made of old cigarbox wood; on one side a monogram painted in red and gold, on the other a spray of autumn leaves.
On the mantelpiece I perceived a model of a small field-piece in brass and oak, and, what interested me more, a cigarbox. I raised the lid; the box was half full of highly creditable-looking cigars. My soul expanded with the thought of a probable offer of at least one. "None of your Flor de Connecticuts," I thought, "from the Vuelta Abajo of New-Windsor, but the genuine Simon Puros."
"I'M goin' to put mine in here, so's it'll come in handy when I haf to get at it." "Well, I guess I'll keep mine there, too," Sam said. Thereupon he deposited his scribbled slip beside Penrod's in the cigarbox, and the box was solemnly returned to the secret place whence it had been taken. "There, THAT'S 'tended to!"
The completeness of his enjoyment troubled the man, and presently he lapsed into silence. All this appeared too good, too pleasant, he feared, to last. "Do you know that you have not answered my last question, nor spoken a word for the last ten minutes?" inquired Helen with a smile, at length. "Have these woods no charm for you, or are you regretting the cigarbox beneath the cedar?"
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