The startling energy with which Mr. Harkins, carried away by the excitement of his story, asked this question, so discomposed the mild young man with the freckles, that he gave a sudden jump back, and glanced in terror at the narrator’s elbow.
“Really, Mr. Harkins, I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Mr. Toosypegs, grasping his carpet-bag, nervously.
“A baby!” said Mr. Harkins, in the same mysterious, husky whisper; “a baby, Mr. Toosypegs! Now, the question his, where did that there baby come from?”
Mr. Harkins gave his hat a slap on the crown, for emphasis, and, resting both hands on the top of his stick, came to a sudden halt, and looked Mr. Toosypegs severely in the face.
“A—really, Mr. Harkins—I—a—I hadn’t the remotest idea,” said Mr. Toosypegs, blushing to the very roots of his hair, “I hope you don’t suspect me—”
“Bah!” interrupted Mr. Harkins, with a look of disgust; “nobody never said nothin’ about you! Well, Mr. Toosypegs, I took her hin, has she hasked, and brought her along has far has my ’ouse, where Missus ’Arkins gave her something to eat for the little ’un, which was has fine a little fellow has you’d wish to see. Then she went hoff, and the next week we heard she’d gone and went crazy.”
“Poor thing. Why, I’m real sorry, Mr. Harkins. I dare say she was a real nice old lady, if she’d been let alone,” said Mr. Toosypegs, in a tone of commiseration.
“Why, who tetched her?” said Mr. Harkins, testily.
“Well, they went and transported her son, and I’m sure it wasn’t right at all, when he did not want to go. She looked real put out about it that night, herself, too.”
“S’pose you heerd her son was drown-ded?”