At each foot-fall on the loose boards of the floor, clouds of stifling dust arose, and strange sounds were heard in and behind the piles of rubbish, as if all sorts of small animals might be skurrying about, and giving alarms to each other.
Mercy stood still on the threshold, her face full of astonishment.

The dust made her cough; and at first she could hardly see which way to step.
The old man threw down his cane, and ran swiftly from corner to corner, and pile to pile, peering around, pulling out first one thing and then another.

He darted from spot to spot, bending lower and lower, as he grew more impatient in his search, till he looked like a sort of human weasel gliding about in quest of prey.
"Trash, trash, nothin' but trash!" he muttered to himself as he ran.

"Burn it up some day.

Trash, trash!" "How did you get all these queer things together, Mr.Wheeler ?" Mercy ventured to say at last "Did you keep a store ?" The old man did not reply.