Monsieur Pettipon peered into the outstretched hand. In the cupped palm was a small dark object. It was alive.
Monsieur Pettipon, speechless with horror, regarded the thing with round unbelieving eyes. He felt as if he had been struck a heavy, stunning blow.
At last with a great effort he asked weakly, "You found him here, monsieur?"
"I found him here," declared the shaggy one, nodding his bushy head toward his berth.
The world of Monsieur Pettipon seemed to come crashing down around his ears.
"Impossible!" panted Monsieur Pettipon. "It could not be."
"It could be," said the shaggy one sternly, "because it was."
He continued to hold the damnatory evidence within a foot of Monsieur Pettipon's staring incredulous eyes.
"But, monsieur," protested the steward, "I tell you the thing could not be. One hundred and twenty-seven times have I crossed on this Voltaire, and such a thing has not been. Never, never, never."
"I did not make him," put in the passenger, with a show of irony.