“All right,” said the lawyer. “I am comfortable now. Unfold your tale.”
At some length Pitman set forth his sorrows. He had gone to-day to Waterloo, expecting to receive the colossal Hercules, and he had received instead a barrel not big enough to hold Discobolus; yet the barrel was addressed in the hand (with which he was perfectly acquainted) of his Roman correspondent. What was stranger still, a case had arrived by the same train, large enough and heavy enough to contain the Hercules; and this case had been taken to an address now undiscoverable. “The vanman (I regret to say it) had been drinking, and his language was such as I could never bring myself to repeat. He was at once discharged by the superintendent of the line, who behaved most properly throughout, and is to make inquiries at Southampton. In the meanwhile, what was I to do? I left my address and brought the barrel home; but, remembering an old adage, I determined not to open it except in the presence of my lawyer.”
“Is that all?” asked Michael. “I don’t see any cause to worry. The Hercules has stuck upon the road. It will drop in to-morrow or the day after; and as for the barrel, depend upon it, it’s a testimonial from one of your young ladies, and probably contains oysters.”
“O, don’t speak so loud!” cried the little artist. “It would cost me my place if I were heard to speak lightly of the young ladies; and besides, why oysters from Italy? and why should they come to me addressed in Signor Ricardi’s hand?”
“Well, let’s have a look at it,” said Michael. “Let’s roll it forward to the light.”
The two men rolled the barrel from the corner, and stood it on end before the fire.
“It’s heavy enough to be oysters,” remarked Michael judiciously.
“Shall we open it at once?” inquired the artist, who had grown decidedly cheerful under the combined effects of company and gin; and without waiting for a reply, he began to strip as if for a prize-fight, tossed his clerical collar in the waste-paper basket, hung his clerical coat upon a nail, and with a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other, struck the first blow of the evening.
“That’s the style, William Dent!” cried Michael. “There’s fire for your money! It may be a romantic visit from one of the young ladies—a sort of Cleopatra business. Have a care and don’t stave in Cleopatra’s head.”