“Is it Jumping Jenny, Troublesome Doll, Mrs. Willie Nillie?” and on master went, over a long list. At last he had mentioned every woman in the laundry except the right one. (And just here, I may wander long enough to say that the dreadful woman with the child that we met one night on Riverside Drive was not there. She had died, and her child was in the country with a farmer’s wife.)
Now at this point, when master was puzzled, my clever mistress interposed again. She had a scent as keen as old King Harry’s, about matters where women and children were concerned.
“Is it old Jane, the cook, Boy?” she asked softly.
Now I was in an ecstasy. I couldn’t stop to lick any one. I yelled with glee, and tore round and round the nursery.
“Upon my word,” said master slowly, when at last I pulled up. “Boy has jumped at the Jane suggestion—but she is too old to have a child. Maybe it’s her grandchild.”
Mistress didn’t say anything, and he went on affectionately, “My clever little dog—my clever brother-dog. You are worth your weight in gold.”
This made me feel and act foolish and modest, and I calmed down, and went to lie at his feet.
“Old Jane,” he repeated soberly. “Poor old Jane—what’s the matter, Claudia?”
Mistress was crying softly, but at his question she flared up. “Can’t you see?” she said wildly, “oh! can’t you see, you obtuse man? That nightmare of a woman—she has no teeth—her eyes are all red—she looks clean, but so thin and starved——”
“She is a cook,” said master.