For there seems no doubt that the things he hunts for are possessed of supernatural powers; and the theory of a brownie in the house, with a special grudge against Jonathan, would perhaps best account for the way in which they elude his search but leap into sight at my approach. There is, to be sure, one other explanation, but it is one that does not suggest itself to him, or appeal to him when suggested by me, so there is no need to dwell upon it.
If it isn’t the rod, it is the landing-net, which has hung itself on a nail a little to the left or right of the one he had expected to see it on; or his reel, which has crept into a corner of the tackle drawer and held a ball of string in front of itself to distract his vision; or a bunch of snell hooks, which, aware of its protective [pg 012] coloring, has snuggled up against the shady side of the drawer and tucked its pink-papered head underneath a gay pickerel-spoon.
Fishing-tackle is, clearly, “possessed,” but in other fields Jonathan is not free from trouble. Finding anything on a bureau seems to offer peculiar obstacles. It is perhaps a big, black-headed pin that I want. “On the pincushion, Jonathan.”
He goes, and returns with two sizes of safety-pins and one long hat-pin.
“No, dear, those won’t do. A small, black-headed one—at least small compared with a hat-pin, large compared with an ordinary pin.”
“Common or house pin?” he murmurs, quoting a friend’s phrase.
“Do look again! I hate to drop this to go myself.”
“When a man does a job, he gets his tools together first.”
“Yes; but they say women shouldn’t copy men, they should develop along their own lines. Please go.”
He goes, and comes back. “You don’t want fancy gold pins, I suppose?”