“Bootles,” said Lacy, gravely, “isn’t it very pwretty?”
“Yes, poor little beggar.”
“Let’s see you nurse it,” cried Hartog.
So Bootles, proud of this new accomplishment, lifted the child awkwardly in his arms, pretty much as he might have done if it had been a sackful of eggs, and he had made a wager he wouldn’t break one of them. He carried it to the fire.
Let’s go and have a look at it
“Just light the candles, one of you,” he said.
“It’s the image of Bootles,” persisted Miles.
“Well, it isn’t mine, except by deed of gift,” returned Bootles, with a laugh.