“Well?” said Bootles, finding no one seemed inclined to speak. “Well?”
“Well,” said Preston, solemnly, “if you want my opinion, Bootles, I think you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
A general laugh followed, but Bootles protested.
“Oh, don’t imagine it’s me. I’ve nothing to do with it. I shouldn’t have come to you fellows if I had.”
“No, no, of course not,” returned Miles, promptly, but with an air which raised another shout.
“Then it’s a plant,” announced Preston, in a tone of conviction.
“Of course it’s a plant,” cried Bootles; “but why in the wide world should it be planted on me?”
“Why, indeed?” echoed Miles, feelingly.
“Besides,” Bootles continued, “some of you know my mother, and that her name was not Mary but Margaret.”
Now as several of those present had known Lady Margaret Ferrers very well, that was a strong point in favor of Preston’s assertion that the affair was a plant. The chief question, however, was what could be done with the little stranger for that night. Some woman, of course, must look after it, but who? It was then after two o’clock, and the lights had been out hours ago in the married people’s quarters. Bootles did not know what to do, and said so.