But it was not the devil at all—more like a little angel, in truth; for after a moment’s irresolution he sprang from his chair and faced the horror behind him. It really was a horror to him, for there, sitting up among the pillows of the cot, with the clothes pushed back, was a baby, a baby whose short golden curls shone in the fire-light—a little child dressed in white, with a pair of wide-open, wondering eyes, as bright as stars and as blue as sapphires.
Bootles stood in dismay staring at it.
“Where, in the name of all that’s wonderful, did you come from?” he asked aloud, keeping at a safe distance lest it should suddenly start howling.
But the little stranger did not howl; on the contrary, as its bewildered eyes fell upon Bootles’s resplendent figure, his gold-laced scarlet jacket and gold-embroidered waistcoat of white velvet, his gold-laced overalls and jingling spurs, it stretched out its little arms and cried, “Boo, boo, boo—!”
Bootles took a step back in his surprise, and his headache vanished as if by magic.
“By—Jove!” he exclaimed.
“Boo—boo—boo!” crowed the usurper of the cot, cheerily.
Bootles went a step nearer. “Why, you’re a queer little beggar,” he remarked. “Where did you come from, eh?”
The “queer little beggar” suddenly changed its tone, and started another system of crowing more triumphant and cheery than the first.
“Chucka—chucka—chucka—chuck!” it went.