"No; by Jove; he's gone into a leg of the pajamas! Here, shake him out—gently now!"
Jenkins lifted the garment gingerly and lightly shook it. But nothing came forth.
"Why don't you look in the leg," I said, "and see if you can see it?"
Jenkins peered down one of the silken tubes and forthwith dropped it with a yell. He jumped back.
"Look out, sir," he cried excitedly; "don't touch 'em! There's a tarantula in there big as a sand crab, and it's alive."
"A tarantula? Nonsense! We don't have tarantulas in New York," I protested.
Jenkins gestured violently. "One's there, sir, anyhow! I saw one once on a bunch of bananas down in South Street. If they jump on you and bite, you might as well just walk around to the undertaker. A dago told me so."
I backed nervously from the crumpled crimson pile on the floor.
Crimson?
Of course, I knew it was crimson; it must be the shadow of the table there that made the things so dark—black, in fact. But my mind was on the tarantula; and I was thinking that it must have been wrapped with the pajamas. Yet I could not understand how this could be, considering how tightly the things had been rolled.