"The Wrong Box" by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne:: Tontines are real wizard. For the uninitiated, a tontine is a financial scheme in which several individuals all contribute to a fund. The money is then invested, with the capital's interest being divided annually amongst all investors. Whenever one member dies, his or her share is then divided amongst the surviving members of the tontine. The process continues until the bitter end, with the last remaining soul collecting all the money. Named for Lorenzo Tonti, the 17th-Century French banker who popularized the concept, tontines are now outlawed, since many saw it as incentive to murder. And really, aren't there enough incentives for murder, what with the current state of pop music and the two-party political system? But tontines were around long enough to inspire some swell stories.

Thanks to a father with an eye to the future, young Joseph and Masterman Finsbury were entered into a tontine with 35 other children at the fee of 1000 pounds each. Time, as its wont to do, eventually claimed the others, leaving the two Finsbury brothers as the only surviving members of the tontine. Masterman, 73, and Joseph, 71, stood on the brink of fortune, all that was needed was the other's demise.

Masterman Finsbury lived a right and proper life. He was industrious, respectable, and honorable, the model British citizen. But even he couldn't resist the onset of old age. Forced to retire, the elderly Masterman lived in quiet seclusion in the home of his son, Michael, a well- known solicitor.

Meanwhile, idleness and eccentricity marred the life of Joseph Finsbury, and he was rewarded with perfect health and an endless reservoir of energy. A failing leather shop was the lone testament to his business acumen, with his true passion being the acquisition of general information. He loved to stockpile trivial knowledge and never missed an opportunity to force his obscure wisdom upon an unsuspecting public. He was never happier than when wandering amongst the populace, giving informative lectures as he went. And the populace was never happier than when he finally shut up.

Joseph's slacken existence became somewhat complicated with the arrival of three children, none of which his own. When Jacob Finsbury, a younger brother, died, Joseph was made guardian of his two nephews, Morris and John. The family expanded when a listener of one of Joseph's many confused ramblings was so enamored with Mr. Finsbury's unique oratory skills that he willed his daughter, Julia, to him upon his death. While most would be burdened by such responsibility, Joseph made lemonade from lemons, investing Morris and John's inherited fortune into the leather business, hiring a nurse and shop manager to watch over all interests, and then skipping town to travel the Continent and amass grist for debate.

After years of carefree wandering, Joseph returned home to discover the leather business in dire shape. To make matters worse, Morris had come of age and wanted his trust fund. Even if Joseph sold everything he owned, he'd still be 7800 pounds short of what he owed the boy. As a result, Joseph agreed to give Morris all he possessed, including his interest in the tontine. In return, Morris agreed to allow Joseph and Julia to continue living in the house, providing each with a meager allowance of one pound per month.

But Morris didn't want a dying leather business, and he certainly didn't want to support an elderly uncle and his girl ward. He wanted his 7800 pounds. And his best chance at getting it was the tontine. So dear Uncle Joseph had to be kept healthy; he was no longer allowed to travel or wander the streets giving lectures or read periodicals that could excite his delicate constitution.

However, the strain of economy and a life delayed proved too much for Morris, and he approached his cousin Michael about possibly splitting the tontine. Nice idea, but Michael would have no part of it. He refused to allow Morris to see his father. But why? What was Michael trying to hide? Was Masterman Finsbury already dead? Was Michael waiting to announce the death of his father until after Joseph passed, thereby robbing Morris of his rightful claim to the tontine? It all sets the stage for a wickedly funny black comedy, involving mistaken identity, devious schemes, and a dead body that really gets around.

The "Wrong Box" was the first of three collaborations between Robert Louis Stevenson and his stepson, Lloyd Osbourne. In 1880, at the age of 30, Mr. Stevenson married Frances Osbourne, a divorcee 10 years his senior. Lloyd was 12 years old at the time and served as inspiration for Mr. Stevenson's most famous work, "Treasure Island" (1883). The two were apparently quite close, and when the Stevenson family retreated to Samoa due to Robert's failing health, the father and son penned "The Wrong Box" (1889), along with "The Wrecker" (1892) and "The Ebb-Tide" (1894). Their partnership came to a tragic end with Mr. Stevenson's death in 1894.

Since my personal experience with Mr. Stevenson is limited to "The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde" and a collection of short stories, it's difficult to tell exactly what impact young Mr. Osbourne had on the style of "The Wrong Box." The prose is definitely fuller, packed with clever digressions and parenthetical comments. But it clearly carries the mark of Mr. Stevenson's genius. It's actually very reminiscent of Max Beerbohm in its overall tone and comedic wit, which is even more impressive considering "The Wrong Box" preceded Beerbohm's significant work by some 20 years. But "The Wrong Box" genuinely deserves to be mentioned with the works of Beerbohm and Oscar Wilde when it comes to comedic literature. It's positively brilliant in its pacing, thrusting its admirable cast of characters through one madcap ordeal after another, as each tries to either find or lose a misplaced corpse.

My only complaint, and it's a slight one, is that the ending isn't as strong as it could be. I was hoping for something more frenetic, culminating with one glorious punch line. As it is, all threads are tied together nicely, but the conclusion is more satisfactory than spectacular.

Still, "The Wrong Box" remains a devastatingly funny book. The more I experience Mr. Stevenson's work, the harder it is to believe he's been so overlooked in modern literary circles.

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