John Fairmeadow's Shadow, however, unable to enter the bar of the Red Elephant, waited in seclusion across the windy street.
Mrs. Bartender was still yawning as John Fairmeadow entered upon her ennui; but when the big minister, exercising the softest sort of caution, slipped off his gigantic pack, and deposited it with exquisitely delicate care, and a face of deep concern, on the table, she opened her faded eyes with interested curiosity. And as for the contents of the pack, there's no more concealing them! The article must now be declared and produced. It was a baby. Of course, it was a baby! The thing has been obvious all along. John Fairmeadow's foundling: left in a basket at the threshold of his temporary lodging-room at Big Rapids that very morning—first to John Fairmeadow's consternation, and then to his gleeful delight. As for the baby itself—it was presently unswathed—it is quite beyond me to describe its excellencies of appearance and conduct. John Fairmeadow himself couldn't make the attempt and escape annihilation. It was a real and regular baby, however. One might suggest, in inadequate description, that it was a plump baby; one might add that it was a lusty baby. It had hair; it had a pucker of amazement; its eyes, two of them, were properly disposed in its head; its hands were of what are called rose-leaf dimensions; it had, apparently, a fixed habit of squirming; it had no teeth. Evidently a healthy baby—a baby that any mother might be proud of—doubtless a marvel of infantile perfection in every respect. I should not venture to dispute such an assertion; nor would John Fairmeadow—nor any other bold gentleman of Swamp's End and Elegant Corners—not in these later days!
Mrs. Bartender, of course, lifted her languid white hands in uttermost astonishment.
"There!" John Fairmeadow exploded, looking round like a showman. "What d'ye think o' that? Eh?"
"But, Mr. Fairmeadow," the poor lady stammered, "what have you brought it here for?"
"Why not?" John Fairmeadow demanded. "Why not, indeed? It's perfectly polite."
"What am I to do with it?"
"It isn't intoxicated, my good woman," John Fairmeadow ran on, in great wrath; "and it's never been in jail."
"But my dear Mr. Fairmeadow, do be sensible; what am I to do with it?"