The Man Who Kept His Money in a BoxTrollope, Anthony
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The Man Who Kept His Money in a Box
Trollope, Anthony
British -- Europe -- Fiction; Short stories; Travelers -- Fiction
“Why did she bring them?” said Sophonisba. “She managed to live very
well without jewels till papa married her, about a year since; and now
she can’t travel about for a month without lugging them with her
everywhere. I should be so glad if some one would steal them.”
“But all Mr. Greene’s money is there also.”
“I don’t want papa to be bothered, but I declare I wish the box might be
lost for a day or so. She is such a fool; don’t you think so, Mr.
Robinson?”
At this time it was just fourteen hours since I first had made their
acquaintance in the yard of Conradi’s hotel, and of those fourteen hours
more than half had been passed in bed. I must confess that I looked upon
Sophonisba as being almost more indiscreet than her mother-in-law.
Nevertheless, she was not stupid, and I continued my conversation with
her the greatest part of the way down the lake towards Bellaggio.
These steamers which run up and down the lake of Como and the Lago
Maggiore, put out their passengers at the towns on the banks of the water
by means of small rowing-boats, and the persons who are about to
disembark generally have their own articles ready to their hands when
their turn comes for leaving the steamer. As we came near to Bellaggio,
I looked up my own portmanteau, and, pointing to the beautiful
wood-covered hill that stands at the fork of the waters, told my friend
Greene that he was near his destination. “I am very glad to hear it,”
said he, complacently, but he did not at the moment busy himself about
the boxes. Then the small boat ran up alongside the steamer, and the
passengers for Como and Milan crowded up the side.
“We have to go in that boat,” I said to Greene.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, but we have.”
“What! put our boxes into that boat,” said Mrs. Greene. “Oh dear! Here,
boatman! there are seven of these boxes, all in white like this,” and she
pointed to the one that had the hole in the canvas. “Make haste. And
there are two bags, and my dressing case, and Mr. Greene’s portmanteau.
Mr. Greene, where is your portmanteau?”
The boatman whom she addressed, no doubt did not understand a word of
English, but nevertheless he knew what she meant, and, being well
accustomed to the work, got all the luggage together in an incredibly
small number of moments.
“If you will get down into the boat,” I said, “I will see that the
luggage follows you before I leave the deck.”
“I won’t stir,” she said, “till I see that box lifted down. Take care;
you’ll let it fall into the lake. I know you will.”
“I wish they would,” Sophonisba whispered into my ear.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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