‘Good God, how small he is!’ cried the amiable uncle, starting back with well-feigned surprise; ‘remarkably small indeed.’
‘Do you think so?’ inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed. ‘He’s a monster to what he was—ain’t he, nurse?’
‘He’s a dear,’ said the nurse, squeezing the child, and evading the question—not because she scrupled to disguise the fact, but because she couldn’t afford to throw away the chance of Dumps’s half-crown.
‘Well, but who is he like?’ inquired little Kitterbell.
Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at the moment of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents.
‘I really don’t know who he’s like,’ he answered, very well knowing the reply expected of him.
‘Don’t you think he’s like me?’ inquired his nephew with a knowing air.
‘Oh, decidedly not!’ returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be misunderstood. ‘Decidedly not like you.—Oh, certainly not.’
‘Like Jemima?’ asked Kitterbell, faintly.
‘Oh, dear no; not in the least. I’m no judge, of course, in such cases; but I really think he’s more like one of those little carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone!’ The nurse stooped down over the child, and with great difficulty prevented an explosion of mirth. Pa and ma looked almost as miserable as their amiable uncle.