“Well,” said William’s mother, “someone has to take him out. It’s such a lovely afternoon. I’m sure it’s very kind of William, on his half-holiday, too. And she’s got such a headache.”
“Well, of course,” said Robert in the voice of one who washes his hands of all further responsibility, “you know William as well as I do.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed William’s mother. “And everything so nicely settled, Robert, and you must come and find fault with it all. If you don’t want William to take him out, will you take him out yourself?”
Robert retreated hastily to the dining-room and continued the conversation from a distance.
“I don’t want to take him out myself—thanks very much, all the same! All I say is—you know William as well as I do. I’m not finding fault with anything. I simply am stating a fact.”
Then William came downstairs.
“Here he is, dear, all ready for you, and you needn’t go far away—just up and down the road, if you like, but stay out till tea-time. He’s a dear little baby, isn’t he? And isn’t it a nice Willy-Billy den, to take it out a nice ta-ta, while it’s mummy goes bye-byes, den?”
William blushed for pure shame.
He pushed the pram down to the end of the road and round the corner. In comparison with William’s feelings, the feelings of some of the early martyrs must have been pure bliss. A nice way for an Outlaw to spend the afternoon! He dreaded to meet any of his brother-outlaws, yet, irresistibly and as a magnet, their meeting-place attracted him. He wheeled the pram off the road and down the country lane towards the field which held their sacred barn. He stopped at the stile that led into the field and gazed wistfully across to the barn in the distance. The infant sat and sucked its thumb and stared at him. Finally it began to converse.
“Blab—blab—blab—blab—blub—blub—blub!”