“It isn’t a dog-basket,” he answers irritably; “it’s a picnic hamper. At the last moment I found I hadn’t got the face to carry the child in my arms: I thought of what the street-boys would call out after me. He’s a rare one to sleep, and I thought if I made him comfortable in that he couldn’t hurt, just for so short a journey. I took it in the carriage with me, and carried it on my knees; I haven’t let it out of my hands a blessed moment.
It’s witchcraft, that’s what it is. I shall believe in the devil after this.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I says, “there’s some explanation; it only wants finding. You are sure this is the identical hamper you packed the child in?”
He was calmer now. He leant over and examined it carefully. “It looks like it,” he says; “but I can’t swear to it.”
“You tell me,” I says, “you never let it go out of your hands. Now think.”
“No,” he says, “it’s been on my knees all the time.”
“But that’s nonsense,” I says; “unless you packed the dog yourself in mistake for your baby. Now think it over quietly. I’m not your wife, I’m only trying to help you. I shan’t say anything even if you did take your eyes off the thing for a minute.”
He thought again, and a light broke over
his face. “By Jove!” he says, “you’re right. I did put it down for a moment on the platform at Banbury while I bought a ‘Tit-Bits.’”
“There you are,” I says; “now you’re talking sense. And wait a minute; isn’t to-morrow the first day of the Birmingham Dog Show?”