A scrambling in the blanket!
Consuelo is in a fit!
So is his mistress.
"O, John, for heaven's sake, run for Thomas, he knows all about dogs. Supposing he should die? O dear—make haste; my darling, my darling!" and Mrs. Howe ran up stairs, and ran down stairs, ran for water, and ran for physic, opened the windows, and shut them, pulled round Betty, and Sally, and Bridget, and threatened the whole crew, unless they helped Consuelo, to turn them all out of doors. And then Thomas came, and manipulated Consuelo as only his humbug-ship knew how, and restored the convalescent jewel to its mistress, who wept with delight, and crossed his palm with a five-dollar gold piece, and then Thomas retired, calling down blessings on all over-fed puppies in particular, and credulous women in general.
And Rose!
She crept down stairs as well as her tears would let her, stopping to kneel before the door through which the wailing "dearie me—dearie me," was issuing.
Wrapping Charley in the only shawl she owned, to defend him from the falling rain, she clambered unassisted, up into the stage. The passengers growled when they saw the baby; the rain spattered on the roof, and windows, and the coachman slamming to the door with an oath, cracked his whip, and the stage rolled away.
What pen can do justice to the atmosphere of a stage, omnibus, or railroad car, of a rainy day?
The fumes of alternate whisky and onions, the steaming, cigar-odored coats, the dirty straw soaking under foot, a deluge if you open the window, poison by inhalation if you do not. Charley became more and more restless, while Rose grew still paler, and the drops stood on her forehead, in dread of his prolonged cry.