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.
“Is it all right?” he says. “Is it alive?”
“It’s about as alive,” I says, “as anybody’ll ever want it to be, I should say.”
“Is it breathing all right?” he says.
“If you can’t hear it breathing,” I says, “I’m afraid you’re deaf.”
You might have heard its breathing outside