The Brass Tube

Samuel was waiting by the bed with his cane hooked over one wrist when Eleanor came in from the yard. He had the iron footlocker open and one hand inside it, feeling around like he was looking for a lost bolt.

“Don’t start stacking anything,” she said. “Your leg’s already mad at you.”

He gave a short grunt and drew out a brass tube no longer than her forearm. The ends were capped with rubber and wrapped tight with old waxed cord. He held it up in the lamplight.

“Kept this through three campaigns and one flood,” he said. “A man can keep a lot if he doesn’t leave it on the seat of a wagon.”

Eleanor wiped the dust from her thumb seam and took the tube from him. It was heavier than it looked.

“What is it?”

“Quartermaster key case. For master patterns.” He rolled his bad shoulder once, face flat. “Doors kept locked too long usually hide one ruin or another.”

She frowned and turned the cylinder in her hands. “You’ve been saving that for what?”

“For a day when some fool in brass forgot the difference between paper and meat.”

He pointed toward the table. “Sit. You’re going to Harbor Point.”