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."