“‘What are you so pale for?’ asked his friend.
“‘Oh, nothing very much. I have broken my arm; but it really doesn’t matter much.’
“While he spoke he fainted, and if it had not been for his friend, might have fallen.
“Meanwhile the baby, left to herself in the perambulator in the middle of the road, began to cry, which attracted the notice of Vixen, who, seeing she was a nice child, went and lifted her out of her perambulator, and put her in her cradle on her organ while nobody was looking, and took her to her home.”
“‘Whose home?’ I asked.
Harry did not condescend to notice this interruption. He may have guessed I was jealous. All that about the heroic fair boy had been taking an unfair advantage of me, and I think he knew it. For I was of a dark complexion! His narrative went on to describe a fight in the organ-grinder’s lodgings, and a burglary, followed by a fire at the residence of the parents of the lost child. As a matter of course, the fair boy with his broken arm turned up on the fire-engine, and brought most of the family down the escape with his sound arm. Then by a sudden transition the scene changed back to the organ-grinder’s “cottage,” on the ground floor of which in another cradle slept another infant, a boy, fair, of course, and beautifully made, showing great promise of physical force and heroism of disposition.
“He was older than Alicia, and could speak a little. There was no one in the room, and as he sat up in his cradle he felt very sad. Presently two young organ-grinders came into the room. One was dark and vicious, the other was fair (of course) and had a pleasant expression. They took no notice of the baby, but sat and smoked and asked riddles of one another. The fair one (of course!) was far the cleverer of the two, and caused much laughter by his wit.
“‘Can you tell me,’ said he, in a pleasant silvery voice very unlike an organ-grinder, ‘why an author is a queer animal?’
“‘Give it hup,’ said the vulgar one, who always put his ‘h’s’ wrong.
“‘Because his tale comes out of his head!’