“Isn’t it done? What do you mean? Why isn’t it done?”
Wipes, in throaty gurgles, told his tale. The attendant had thrust the child into the soldier’s arms and jumped back on the train, refusing to listen to reason. She was not going back to New York, she was going up the river to visit her cousin—she had no further concern with the baby than to deliver him at West Point. She laughed at the idea of taking him back to the city. The train went on, and Wipes was left standing with little Marcus howling in his arms.
Such was the tale. Fitzhugh stared in horror. He gasped before he could speak.
“Wipes,” he whispered, “where is it? Here?”
“Yis, sorr—me wife’s got it.”
Fitzhugh breathed again—how good, how thoughtful of Wipes—and he had never dreamed of this obvious plan, either. Mrs. Wipes—of course—what more natural?
“Wipes, you’re a fine fellow—you’re glorious, old Wipesy!” he exploded. “Tell your wife I’ll pay anything she wants—anything. Only keep it. Will she keep it? It’s only a week. She will, won’t she? You tell her to keep it, Wipesy.”
“Very good, sorr. I’ll tell ’r. She’ll keep ’t,” the soldier answered in vocal shorthand, and Fitzhugh, trembling still, shaken with emotion, was yet relieved and grateful. Wipes turned to go, then wheeled. “Miss Duncan, sorr.”
Fitzhugh opened startled eyes at him. “What about Miss Duncan?” he demanded, with dignity.
“Oi met ’r with th’ kid ’n me arrms.”