The next day I took the manuscript I had just written, and carefully
infolded it in stout wrapping-paper. Then I went to a neighboring
grocery-store and bought a small, strong tin box, originally
intended for biscuit, with a cover that fitted tightly. In this I
placed my manuscript; and then I took the box to a tinsmith and had
the top fastened on with hard solder. When I went home I ascended
into the garret, and brought down to my study a ship's cash-box,
which had once belonged to one of my family who was a sea-captain.
This box was very heavy, and firmly bound with iron, and was secured
by two massive locks. Calling my wife, I told her of the contents of
the tin case, which I then placed in the box, and, having shut down
the heavy lid, I doubly locked it.
"This key," said I, putting it in my pocket, "I shall throw into the
river when I go out this afternoon."
My wife watched me eagerly, with a pallid and firm, set countenance,
but upon which I could see the faint glimmer of returning happiness.
"Wouldn't it be well," she said, "to secure it still further by
sealing-wax and pieces of tape?"
"No," said I. "I do not believe that any one will attempt to tamper
with our prosperity. And now, my dear," I continued, in an
impressive voice, "no one but you, and, in the course of time, our
son, shall know that this manuscript exists. When I am dead, those
who survive me may, if they see fit, cause this box to be split open
and the story published. The reputation it may give my name cannot
harm me then."