“Did you see it directly, Bootles?”
“Oh no; not for half an hour or more.”
“What on earth did you do?”
“Why, I looked at it of course. What would you have done?”
“Did you touch it?”
Bootles laughed. “Yes, by Jove, the little beggar came to me like a bird.”
“Great gods!” uttered Miles, “and you can doubt the fatherliness of that!”
“Oh, what an ass you are!” returned Hartog; then, as if by a bright inspiration, suggested, “I say, let’s go and have a look at it.”
Thereupon the assembled officers, five of them, trooped along the way Bootles had stumbled over alone in the blindness of his now forgotten headache. The baby was still in the cot, contentedly playing with the watch and chain, and at the sight of the five resplendent figures it set up a loud “Boo—boo—boo—ing,” followed by a “Chucka—chucka—chucka—ing.” Evidently it considered this was the land of Goshen.
“Seems to take after its mother in its love for a scarlet jacket,” remarked Miles, sententiously. “I’ve heard that the child is father of the man—seems of the woman too.”