"Coom down, coom down, Mr. Hardy," sang out Bax. "The constable'll make it right."
Hardy pulled out a box of wax matches and struck one. The landing was in darkness, and he wanted to see. He guessed the girl's bedroom by intuition, opened the door, and saw the trunk—a small one—seized the handle, and dragged it to the head of the staircase. It was lighter than a sea chest, and with a heave he settled it on his shoulder, and went creaking down-stairs.
"I defy you to take that box out of my house without my leave," yelled Mrs. Armstrong.
Hardy seemed cool, but his spirits were in a blaze. He regarded the sending for a constable as an atrocious act of insolence, and he walked past the woman, not in the smallest degree caring whether he plunged the corner of the box into her head or not. She took care, however, to give him a wide berth, and he passed through the house door, whilst the little dog barked furiously at a safe distance at the end of the passage.
"Give me a hand with this," said he to Bax. "This is no business of the constable. The box belongs to a young lady who wants it, and I intend that she shall have it."
"Mr. Hardy," answered Bax, "I'd rather not meddle with the box till the constable cooms; he'll be 'ere in a minute. He allus smokes his pipe by his fireside at this hour. If it should be the wrong box—"
"It's the right box," exclaimed Hardy, standing with the trunk on his shoulder.
"I'd rather wait for Rogers to make it all right," said Bax.
Hardy sent a sea blessing at his head, and without another word walked rapidly to the cart, threw the box in, took the reins off the gate, sprang on to the seat, and drove off.