“Was there by any chance a flaw in the marriage?” inquired a fourth.
“Do you think I’m a fool?” asked Bootles, pleasantly. “I tell you it’s a plant. I know nothing about the creature.”
“Just my view,” struck in Miles. “Just what I said last night. It’s absurd, you know, to expect him to own it. No fellow would. Besides, does Bootles look like the father of a fine bouncing baby that goes ‘Chucka, chucka, chuck?’ It’s absurd, you know.”
Even Bootles joined in the laugh which followed, and Miles continued:
“The only thing is—and it really is awkward for Bootles—the extraordinary likeness. Blue eyes, golden hair, fair complexion. I should say myself”—looking at his comrade critically, “that at the same age Bootles was just such a baby as that which turned up so mysteriously last night.”
“That’s as may be. Any way, the youngster is not mine,” said Bootles, emphatically; “and what to do with the little beggar I don’t know.”
“Send it back to its mother,” suggested Dawson.
“But I don’t know who the mother is,” Bootles answered, impatiently.
“Oh no; so you say. Well, then, the brat must have growed, like Topsy. If I were you I should send it to the police-station.”
“The police-station? Oh no; hang it all, the poor little beggar has done nothing to start the world in that way,” Bootles answered.