the Vestry or Custom House or something for leaving our parcels on the

pavement.'

The men by this time had successfully removed the box from the van, had

plumped it down on the pavement, and now stood leaning against it, or

gazing at the door of No. 16, in visible physical distress and mental

embarrassment. The windows of the whole street had filled, as if by

magic, with interested and entertained spectators.

With as thoughtful and scientific an expression as he could assume,

Gideon measured the doorway with his cane, while Julia entered his

observations in a drawing-book. He then measured the box, and, upon

comparing his data, found that there was just enough space for it to

enter. Next, throwing off his coat and waistcoat, he assisted the men to

take the door from its hinges. And lastly, all bystanders being pressed

into the service, the packing-case mounted the steps upon some

fifteen pairs of wavering legs--scraped, loudly grinding, through the

doorway--and was deposited at length, with a formidable convulsion, in

the far end of the lobby, which it almost blocked. The artisans of this

victory smiled upon each other as the dust subsided. It was true they

had smashed a bust of Apollo and ploughed the wall into deep ruts; but,

at least, they were no longer one of the public spectacles of London.

'Well, sir,' said the vanman, 'I never see such a job.'

Gideon eloquently expressed his concurrence in this sentiment by

The Wrong Box