"Then I'll be a good boy, won't I, papa?"
"Yes; you'll be the best boy on earth. Good-night, dearie."
"Papa!"
"Well, well! What now?"
"Is I your little boy?"
"Yes, yes; of course."
"Some mans haven't got any little boys; but you have, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Don't you wish you had two, free, nine, 'leben, twenty-six, ninety-ten, free hundred little boys?"
The mere possibility of such a remote and contingent calamity so paralyzes you that you lie speechless for ten minutes during which you hear a yawn or two in the little bed by your side, a little figure rolls over three or four times, a pair of heels fly into the air once or twice, a warm, moist little hand reaches out and touches your face to make sure that you are there, and the boy is asleep with his heels where his head ought to be.