"Find me the pawnbroker," retorted the distressed man, "who would lend money on a baby!"
"Truly," observed Mr. Loveday, with grim suggestiveness, "flesh and blood is not at a premium in this neighborhood."
"But, Mr. Loveday," implored the pawnbroker, "what am I to do with it?"
"I can hardly advise you. You can't very well put it among your other pledges, and you can't very well throw it into the streets."
In his heart of hearts the pawnbroker, although not in the main an ill-natured man, was for the moment mad with himself for having taken Mr. Loveday into his confidence. If he had kept the matter to himself, he might, failing all other ways of getting rid of the encumbrance, have deposited it on a doorstep in such a manner and at such a time that it could not fail to come under the notice of a policeman, who, in the exercise of his duty, could not have allowed it to remain there. It was a warm night, the child was strong and healthy, and was sleeping comfortably; it could scarcely have taken cold. But this proceeding was not open to him now that Mr. Loveday was in possession of the particulars.
"They wouldn't take it in at the workhouse," said Mr. Loveday.
"Why not? They've a better right to it than I have."
"It would have to be proved that it belonged to the parish. It is such a queer story, you see."
"Do you mean to say it wouldn't be believed?"
"I can't hazard an opinion. Suppose you call your wife down, and ask her to take care of it till you find out something about it."