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It was a big square room lighted by three windows set close together, and at first glance looked like a museum or a curio shop. Almost every inch of wall space was covered with pictures, posters or trophies of some kind, with snowshoes, tennis rackets, foils and mask, Indian moccasins, a couple of small-bore rifles, a battered lacrosse stick depended against them. A long, cushioned seat stood under the windows and was piled with brightly-coloured pillows. The floor was bare save for a few scattered rugs. A brass bed, a chiffonier, an immense study table, two comfortable armchairs and several straight-backed chairs comprised the principal furnishings, but by no means all. Near the windows was a smaller table, holding wireless instruments. A set of bookshelves, evidently home-made—Jack referred to them as being “near-Mission”—held a miscellaneous collection of volumes ranging from “Zig-Zag Journeys” to the latest juvenile thriller, presented last Christmas, and including all sorts of old school-books with worn backs. An old seaman’s chest stood against a wall, the repository for abandoned toys and devices. One end was decorated with the legend, apparently inscribed with a brush dipped in shoe-blacking: “Captain Kidd His Chest! Beware!!” One corner of the room held an assortment of fishing-rods, golf-clubs and hockey-sticks, and another a pair of skiis, two canoe paddles, and a camera tripod. The camera itself stood nearby, neighboured by a jig-saw, and a stereopticon sat beside it. Joe gazed and marvelled.