“If you mean the fugitive, Darrell, he has escaped through the back window,” replied Jonathan.
“Thank Heaven!” she gasped.
“Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say,” observed Jonathan, sarcastically. “You thank Heaven for the escape of the man who did his best to get your child's neck twisted.”
“What do you mean?” asked the female, in astonishment.
“I mean what I say,” replied Jonathan. “Perhaps you don't know that this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat, I can assure you. However, the scheme answered well enough, for Darrell has got off with his own brat.”
“Then this is not my child?” exclaimed she, with increased astonishment.
“If you have a child there, it certainly is not,” answered Jonathan, a little surprised; “for I left your brat in the charge of Blueskin, who is still among the crowd in the street, unless, as is not unlikely, he's gone to see your other friend disciplined at the pump.”
“Merciful providence!” exclaimed the female. “Whose child can this be?”
“How the devil should I know!” replied Jonathan gruffly. “I suppose it didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's flesh and blood?” asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with pain.
“My child! my child!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheppard, rushing from the adjoining room. “Where is it?”