“Indeed, but I shall,” he said. “I always say what I mean.”
“But you can’t, sir. It must be dressed, and have on its hood.”
“Bother!” cried Geoffrey; “it has got on too much already, and the sea-breeze will do it good. Come along, young top-heavy,” he continued, laughing. “I shall be in the corner where I smoke my pipe, Bessie. Come and fetch the little soft dab when you’ve done.”
He went laughing off, not seeing Bessie’s countenance contract with pain, and, talking to the round-eyed, staring infant, he made his way up out of the Cove and along the cliff path, towards Carnac, to where the rock retired in one spot, forming a sunny little nook, full of soft, dry turf, stunted ferns and pink stonecrop, and scented with wild thyme. It was a place much affected by Geoffrey, where he could sit and watch the changing sea, and try to scheme his future. Here he seated himself on the turf, with his shoulders against the rock.
“Well, you are a rum little joker,” he cried, as he packed the baby up between his knees, nipping its loose garments so as to hold its little form up steady, all but the head, which kept nodding at him, the tiny intelligence therein seeming to find something vastly amusing in the dark, robust man’s face, and laughing merrily every now and then, after a staring, open-eyed inspection. “Keep your mouth shut, you drivelling little morsel, will you?” cried Geoffrey, using his pocket-handkerchief to the fount-like lips. “I enjoy you, young ’un, ’pon my word I do.”
Here there were three or four nods and another laugh.
“Hold still, will you?” cried Geoffrey, “or you’ll wobble that head off. There now, you’re square. Good heavens! what a lot of toggery you have got on. Why don’t she give you one good thick flannel sack, instead of all these stringed, and pinned, and buttoned wonders! That’s right; go it. I’m comic, arn’t I? Why, you jolly young jester, you are always on the grin.”
The baby relapsed into a state of solemnity, gently bowing its head forwards and backwards, and making a few awkward clutches at Geoffrey’s nose, which was nearly a yard away.
“Shouldn’t have thought there was so much fun in a bit of a thing like this,” continued Geoffrey, putting his hands behind his head, and resting them on the rock. “My ideas of a baby were that it was a sort of bagpipe that was always playing a discordant tune. Oh, I say, baby! for shame! I’m afraid your digestion is not perfect. In good society we always put our hand before our mouth when we make a noise like that. Here, this is the way. Hold still, you soft little atom. Why, I don’t believe you’ve a bone in your body.”
Geoffrey’s hands had come from behind his head once more, and he laughingly placed one tiny, clutched fist before the wet mouth, for by no amount of persuasion could the hand be made to keep open.