He opened the old mail-sack as he spoke, and disclosed to the gaze of the astonished crowd a little child. It was asleep, and as peacefully and soundly as if it were in a satin-lined cradle.
“Why, it is a kid!” exclaimed one, as the men pressed round closer and stared at the sleeping child.
Questions were hurled at Bill’s head from every direction.
“Where did you get it?” “Is it a boy or a girl?” “How old is it?” “Can it walk?” “Can it talk?” “What’s the color of its eyes?” “Just take it out of that darned old bag and let’s have a look at it!”
But though the questions were numerous and graphic, the tones in which they were uttered were subdued and hushed; for a child of tender years was a novelty at Three Star Camp, and produced a curious effect upon the rough men. Some of them had not seen a child for years; some of them had left just such a baby in England; some of them had stood beside a grave about the size of this bundle. Their faces softened and grew serious as they looked down at it.
Bill the postman glanced round with an air of triumph and satisfaction.
“If any of yer had got a spark of human kindness inside yer hides, you’d offer a man a drink,” he remarked in a voice of suggestive huskiness.
A dozen men started for the bar, and one secured some whisky and thrust it into Bill’s hand.
“Drink it and start on your tale, you blank old fraud!” he said. “Where did you get the kid?”
Bill drank his whisky with aggravating slowness, and, stooping down, wiped his mouth on a corner of the mail-sack with still more exasperating elaboration.