they're mostly unpleasant.

"What's in it?" I says.

"You'll see if you open it," he says: "it won't hurt you." And off he
goes again, chuckling to himself.

"Well," I says to myself, "I hope you're a harmless specimen." Then an
idea struck me, and I stopped with the knot in my fingers.

"It ain't a corpse," I says, "is it?"

He turned as white as the sheet on the bed, and clutched the mantlepiece.
"Good God! don't suggest such a thing," he says; "I never thought of
that. Open it quickly."

"I'd rather you came and opened it yourself, sir," I says. I was
beginning not to half like the business.

"I can't," he says, "after that suggestion of yours--you've put me all in
a tremble. Open it quick, man; tell me it's all right."

Well, my own curiosity helped me. I cut the cord, threw open the lid,
and looked in. He kept his eyes turned away, as if he were frightened to
look for himself.

"Is it all right?" he says. "Is it alive?"

"It's about as alive," I says, "as anybody'll ever want it to be, I
should say."