“Why, here it is in the boot!” exclaimed the passenger, “snug at the bottom, where it might have remained, I suppose, for you, till safely returned to the coach-yard in Edinburgh.” The guard made an awkward apology, put the trunk upon the barrow, and away we all went to the steam-boat. Nothing farther occurred till we were all standing beside the coach at Pettycur, ready to proceed on our journey through Fife. Every thing seemed to have been stowed into the coach, and most of the passengers had taken their proper places, when the tall gentleman cried out, “Guard, where is my trunk?” “In the boot, sir,” answered the guard; “you may depend upon that.” “I have not seen it put in,” said the passenger, “and I don’t believe it is there.” “Oh, sir,” said the guard, quite distressed, “there can surely be no doubt about the trunk now.” “There! I declare—there!” cried the owner of the missing property; “my trunk is still lying down yonder upon the sands. Don’t you see it? The sea, I declare, is just about reaching it. What a careless set of porters! I protest I never was so treated on any journey before.” The trunk was instantly rescued from its somewhat perilous situation, and, all having been at length put to rights, we went on our way to Cupar. Here the coach stops a few minutes at the inn, and there is generally a partial discharge of passengers. As some individuals, on the present occasion, had to leave the coach, there was a slight discomposure of the luggage, and various trunks and bundles were presently seen departing on the backs of porters, after the gentlemen to whom they belonged. After all seemed to have been again put to rights, the tall gentleman made his wonted inquiry respecting his trunk. “The trunk, sir,” said the guard, rather pettishly, “is in the boot.” “Not a bit of it,” said its owner, who in the meantime had been peering about. “There it lies in the lobby of the inn!” The guard now began to think that this trunk was in some way bewitched, and possessed a power, unenjoyed by other earthly trunks, of removing itself or staying behind, according to its own good pleasure. “The Lord have a care o’ us!” cried the astonished custodier of baggage, who, to do him justice, seemed an exceedingly sober and attentive person. “The Lord have a care o’ us, sir! That trunk’s no canny.”[8] “It’s _canny_ enough, you fool,” said the gentleman sharply; “but only you don’t pay proper attention to it.”