Naturally, the managing editor would express some regrets. He would pay a warm tribute to the worth and career of Peter Neale, at the end of which Peter would remark, "I'm glad you feel that way about it, sir." After that formality the substitution would be accepted. The line of Neale would remain unbroken.
All this gazing into the future cheered up Peter so much that he started out very gaily that afternoon to compose a column and mind the baby at the same time. Unfortunately the five o'clock feeding time came around just as he was getting into the swing of an article on the advantages of being lefthanded for the purposes of baseball. Somebody had told him that the Bible had something to say on the subject. Peter found it in the twentieth chapter of Judges where he read: "The inhabitants of Gibeah.... Among all this people there were seven hundred chosen men lefthanded; everyone could sling stones at an hair-breadth, and not miss."
That was just meat for Peter.
"The average southpaw of today," he began, "may have even more speed than the inhabitants of old Gibeah but his control isn't so good." Before he could develop the theme further young Peter began to cry. When searched nothing seemed wrong with him but then Peter remembered about the bottle. He was already half an hour late. The milk was mixed and ready in individual containers in the icebox but Kate had told him to be sure and have it warm. Peter had never warmed anything in his life. After some thought he decided that he could put water into a pot and heat it and then dip the bottle in. He waited until the water was boiling. But the next problem was more difficult. What did Kate mean by warm? How hot could the child stand it? His first three estimates were wrong. Young Peter spit out the milk and yelled. It was annoying for the mixture was hardly steaming.
Cooling it seemed ever so much more difficult than heating. Peter stood the bottle on the window ledge and waved it over his head and blew on it without much appreciable effect upon the temperature. More than half an hour was wasted before the child consented to accept the milk. When Peter went back to his column about lefthanders the spirit and swing of the thing had disappeared. He tried to write a poem to Rube Waddell called, "The Great Gibean" and couldn't find any rhymes. The notion limped home.
Kate's ten o'clock turned out to be past midnight. Shortly before her return the baby went to sleep.
"How did you find your niece's child?" asked Peter.
"Oh, she's fine," said Kate. "She's a girl. A fine little girl, but she's not a patch on himself."
"He's got a name now," said Peter. "We won't have to be saying 'him,' and 'it' and 'the baby' any more. His name's Peter Neale."