“I couldn’t put any feelin’,” he explained, “into fightin’ for that baby.”
When they finally decided to set off homewards, William gazed hopelessly at his charge. Its appearance defies description. For many years afterwards William associated babies in his mind with paraffin-oil and potato.
“Just help me get the potato out of its hair,” he pleaded; “never mind the oil and the rest of it.”
“THAT’S MY PRAM!” SAID WILLIAM TO THE CARGO, AS THEY EMERGED JOYFULLY FROM THE DITCH.
“My hat! doesn’t it smell funny!—and doesn’t it look funny—all oil and potato and bits of cake!” said Ginger.
“Oh! shut up about it,” said William irritably.
The cow followed them down to the stile and watched them sardonically as they climbed it.
“Bow-wow!” murmured the baby in affectionate farewell.
William looked wildly round for the pram, but—the pram was gone—only the piece of string dangled from the railings.