and then turned to answer
me.

"Are you a married man?" says he.

It was an odd question to put to a waiter, but coming from a gent there
was nothing to be alarmed about.

"Well, not exactly," I says--I was only engaged at that time, and that
not to my wife, if you understand what I mean--"but I know a good deal
about it," I says, "and if it's a matter of advice--"

"It isn't that," he answers, interrupting me; "but I don't want you to
laugh at me. I thought if you were a married man you would be able to
understand the thing better. Have you got an intelligent woman in the
house?"

"We've got women," I says. "As to their intelligence, that's a matter of
opinion; they're the average sort of women. Shall I call the
chambermaid?"

"Ah, do," he says. "Wait a minute," he says; "we'll open it first."

He began to fumble with the cord, then he suddenly lets go and begins to
chuckle to himself.

"No," he says, "you open it. Open it carefully; it will surprise you."

I don't take much stock in surprises myself. My experience is that
they're mostly unpleasant.

"What's in it?" I says.

"You'll see if you open it," he says: "it won't hurt you." And off he
goes again, chuckling to himself.

"Well," I says to myself, "I hope you're a harmless specimen." Then an
idea struck me, and I stopped with the knot in my fingers.

"It ain't a corpse," I says, "is it?"

He turned as white as the sheet on the bed, and clutched the mantlepiece.
"Good God! don't suggest such a thing," he says; "I never thought of
that. Open it quickly."

"I'd rather you came and opened it yourself, sir," I says. I was
beginning not to half like the business.

"I can't," he says, "after that suggestion of yours--you've put me all in
a tremble. Open it quick, man; tell me it's all right."

Well, my own curiosity helped me. I cut the cord, threw open the lid,
and looked in. He kept his eyes turned away, as if he were frightened to
look for himself.

"Is it all right?" he says. "Is it alive?"

"It's about as alive," I says, "as anybody'll ever want it to be, I
should say."

"Is it breathing all right?" he says.

"If you can't hear it breathing," I says, "I'm afraid you're deaf."

You might have heard its breathing outside in the street. He listened,
and even he was satisfied.

"Thank Heaven!" he says, and down he plumped in the easy-chair by the
fireplace. "You know, I never thought of that," he goes on. "He's been
sh