The show-case lay balanced across the railing of the veranda, while five boys recovered breath. One of them steadied it with a hand, while four mopped their brows. Sam bent over the gaudy display beneath the glass, and seemed to be talking to himself.
"Good stuff, some of that. It ought to sell high. I wouldn't mind bidding on that brooch myself. But the bracelet—whew! That's going high, I'll bet. Why, I know a dealer—"
The boatman's foot slipped and he lurched heavily against the case. There was a warning cry from the boy who balanced it upon its precarious perch, echoed by a sharp exclamation from Rosalind as the case upended and slid gently over the railing. An instant later it landed with a jingling crash on the gravel path, six feet below.
Sam swore fervently at his own carelessness.
"Quick!" he commanded. "Get down here, you, and pick up the stuff!"
Five boys scrambled over the railing and leaped to the ground. Rosalind, almost in a frenzy of solicitude for her precarious property, started to run toward the nearest steps. She was pulled back.
"S-sh! Stay here!" commanded the boatman. "Watch!"
He leaned over the railing and looked down upon the wreckage, amid which his uniformed helpers were already on their knees, heedless of broken glass and intent only upon retrieving the treasures that had come such a melancholy cropper.
Bit by bit they rescued the miscellaneous donations to the cause of Belgian relief. Bit by bit they tossed aside the broken glass and piled in a loose heap the gaudy gifts that had been so tenderly guarded.
"Watch!" repeated Sam in a whisper.