He had known no baby but his lost sister, and thought of all babies as girls.
“You’ll catch me, won’t you, Clare?” said Tommy.
“The thing you’ve done once you can do again! I can’t set down the baby to catch you!” replied the unsuspicious Clare, and turned to seek an exit from the cellar. He had not had time yet to wonder how Tommy had got out.
Tommy came tumbling on the top of the coals: he dared not be left with the water-butt and the pool and the moon.
“Where are you, Clare?” he called.
Clare answered him from the top of the stone stair that led to the cellar, and Tommy was soon at his heels. Going along a dark passage, where they had to feel their way, they arrived at the kitchen. The loose outside shutter belonged to it, and as it was open, a little of the moonlight came in. The place looked dreary enough and cold enough with its damp brick-floor and its rusty range; but at least they were out of the air, and out of sight of the moon! If only they had some of that coal alight!
“I don’t see as we’re much better off!” said Tommy. “I’m as cold as pigs’ trotters!”
“Then what must baby be like!” said Clare, whose heart was brimful of anxiety for his charge. It seemed to him he had never known misery till now. Life or death for the baby—and he could do nothing! He was cold enough himself, what with hunger, and the night, and the wet and deadly cold little body in his arms; but whatever discomfort he felt, it seemed not himself but the baby that was feeling it; he imputed it all to the baby, and pitied the baby for the cold he felt himself.
“We needn’t stay here, though,” he said. “There must be better places in the house! Let’s try and find a bedroom!”
“Come along!” responded Tommy.