"How they came to be born at all is what I cannot understand," said Sibyl, who is always like that when trying to be serious.
"Well," I said, "I have decided to keep one of them—No. 1."
"But surely," said Sibyl, "that the most delicate one of the lot."
That, I well knew, was quite true. Whether I should ever rear No. 1 was a matter for time to prove. It was so delicate that once or twice already it had been on the verge of collapse, but I had rallied it each time.
"As for the others," I said, "we shall have to get rid of them."
I need not go into painful details, but the thing was easily done. That very evening, unfortunately, through an oversight, No. 1 perished also.
For this I blame McWhirter.
"The number of my bus is 21," he said in the theatre buffet that night; "by the way what's yours?"
"Whisky," I said absent-mindedly, "and not much soda."
And it was only after I had drunk it that I realised my error. It was then too late.