“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.