isn’t my child. What’s happened? Am I going mad?”
“You’re on that way,” I says, and so he was. “Calm yourself,” I says; “what did you expect to see?”
“My child,” he shrieks again; “my only child—my baby!”
“Do you mean a real child?” I says, “a human child?” Some folks have such a silly way of talking about their dogs—you never can tell.
“Of course I do,” he says; “the prettiest child you ever saw in all your life, just thirteen weeks old on Sunday. He cut his first tooth yesterday.”
The sight of the dog’s face seemed to madden him. He flung himself upon the basket, and would, I believe, have strangled the poor beast if I hadn’t interposed between them.
“’Tain’t the dog’s fault,” I says; “I daresay he’s as sick about the whole business as you are. He’s lost, too. Somebody’s been having a lark with you. They’ve took your baby out and put this in—that is, if there ever was a baby there.”
“What do you mean?” he says.
“Well, sir,” I says, “if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen in their sober senses don’t take their babies about in dog-baskets. Where do you come from?”
“From Banbury,” he says; “I’m well known in Banbury.”