"I hain't touched none of your property," says he, a-wiping his forehead with the cuff of his coat. "Never see a bit of it."
"That trunk is my property," says I, pointing toward it with my parasol, which I still held belligerently by the middle.
"Well," says the fellow, eyeing the trunk sideways, "it does look sort of pecular, but still I reckon it's nothing more 'en a trunk, after all—one of the hairy old stagers—but only a trunk, anyhow!"
"Sir," says I, with emphatic dignity, for the honor of my ancestors was concerned, "that is a traditional trunk—a testamentary bequest from my grandmother—who was revolutionary in her time."
"What," says the man—"what is that you say?"
Here a real nice-looking gentleman came up to where I stood, and says he to the man:
"You should be more careful, the trunk is evidently an heirloom."
"You are very kind," says I, relenting into a bow; "it's only a hair-trunk—grandmother's loom went to another branch of the family."
"Well, anyway, I'll put the crather by itself, and bring it to yez safe, marum, never fear," says the Irishman; and with that he sat down on my blessed grandmother's trunk and wiped his face again. Then he waved his dirty hand and motioned that I should go away, which I did, and found E. E. spreading her skirts out wide on a settee, and looking as innocent as twenty lambs if any one seemed to turn anxiously toward the extra seat she was covering up for me.
I took the seat thankfully, spread my parasol, and tried to catch a mouthful of air, but there wasn't a breath stirring. The water in the harbor was smooth as a looking-glass. The sky was broad, blue, and so hot with sunshine that it blistered one's face to look up.