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The Wrong Box-Part12_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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testimonial from one of your young ladies, and probably contains



oysters.'

'O, don't speak so loud!' cried the little artist. 'It would cost



me my place if I were heard to speak lightly of the young ladies;

and besides, why oysters from Italy? and why should they come to



me addressed in Signor Ricardi's hand?'

'Well, let's have a look at it,' said Michael. 'Let's roll it



forward to the light.'

The two men rolled the barrel from the corner, and stood it on



end before the fire.

'It's heavy enough to be oysters,' remarked Michael judiciously.



'Shall we open it at once?' enquired the artist, who had grown

decidedly cheerful under the combined effects of company and gin;



and without waiting for a reply, he began to strip as if for a

prize-fight, tossed his clericalcollar in the wastepaper basket,



hung his clerical coat upon a nail, and with a chisel in one hand

and a hammer in the other, struck the first blow of the evening.



'That's the style, William Dent' cried Michael. 'There's fire

for--your money! It may be a romantic visit from one of the young



ladies--a sort of Cleopatra business. Have a care and don't stave

in Cleopatra's head.'



But the sight of Pitman's alacrity was infectious. The lawyer

could sit still no longer. Tossing his cigar into the fire, he



snatched the instrument from the unwilling hands of the artist,

and fell to himself. Soon the sweat stood in beads upon his



large, fair brow; his stylish trousers were defaced with iron

rust, and the state of his chisel testified to misdirected



energies.

A cask is not an easy thing to open, even when you set about it



in the right way; when you set about it wrongly, the whole

structure must be resolved into its elements. Such was the course



pursued alike by the artist and the lawyer. Presently the last

hoop had been removed--a couple of smart blows tumbled the staves



upon the ground--and what had once been a barrel was no more than

a confused heap of broken and distorted boards.



In the midst of these, a certain dismal something, swathed in

blankets, remained for an instantupright, and then toppled to



one side and heavily collapsed before the fire. Even as the thing

subsided, an eye-glass tingled to the floor and rolled toward the



screaming Pitman.

'Hold your tongue!' said Michael. He dashed to the house door and



locked it; then, with a pale face and bitten lip, he drew near,

pulled aside a corner of the swathing blanket, and recoiled,



shuddering. There was a long silence in the studio.

'Now tell me,' said Michael, in a low voice: 'Had you any hand in



it?' and he pointed to the body.

The little artist could only utter broken and disjointed sounds.



Michael poured some gin into a glass. 'Drink that,' he said.

'Don't be afraid of me. I'm your friend through thick and thin.'



Pitman put the liquor down untasted.

'I swear before God,' he said, 'this is another mystery to me. In



my worst fears I never dreamed of such a thing. I would not lay a

finger on a sucking infant.'



'That's all square,' said Michael, with a sigh of huge relief. 'I

believe you, old boy.' And he shook the artist warmly by the



hand. 'I thought for a moment,' he added with rather a ghastly

smile, 'I thought for a moment you might have made away with Mr



Semitopolis.'

'It would make no difference if I had,' groaned Pitman. 'All is



at an end for me. There's the writing on the wall.'

'To begin with,' said Michael, 'let's get him out of sight; for



to be quite plain with you, Pitman, I don't like your friend's

appearance.' And with that the lawyer shuddered. 'Where can we



put it?'

'You might put it in the closet there--if you could bear to touch



it,' answered the artist.

'Somebody has to do it, Pitman,' returned the lawyer; 'and it



seems as if it had to be me. You go over to the table, turn your

back, and mix me a grog; that's a fair division of labour.'



About ninety seconds later the closet-door was heard to shut.

'There,' observed Michael, 'that's more homelike. You can turn



now, my pallid Pitman. Is this the grog?' he ran on. 'Heaven




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