“You’ll be cuffed and kicked and half starved, while your adopted mother pockets her twenty-five francs a month, and you’ll belong to nobody, and wonder why the deuce you’re alive, and wish you were dead; and, if you remember to-day, you’ll curse me for not having had the decency to run over you.”
The clasp relaxed, puckers appeared at the corners of the dribbling mouth, and a myriad tiny horizontal lines of care marked the sock-capped brow.
“Poor little devil!” said Aristide. “My heart bleeds for you, especially now that you’re dressed in my sock and pyjama, and are sucking the only shoe-horn I ever possessed.”
A welcome sound caused Aristide to leap into the middle of the road. He looked ahead, and there, in a cloud of dust, a thing like a torpedo came swooping down. He held up both his arms, the signal of a motorist in distress. The torpedo approached with slackened speed, and stopped. It was an evil-looking, drab, high-powered racer, and two bears with goggles sat in the midst thereof. The bear at the wheel raised his cap and asked courteously:—
“What can we do for you, monsieur?”
At that moment the baby broke into heart-rending cries. Aristide took off his goat-skin cap and, remaining uncovered, looked at the bear, then at the baby, then at the bear again.
“Monsieur,” said he, “I suppose it’s useless to ask you whether you have any milk and a feeding-bottle?”
“Mais dites donc!” shouted the bear, furiously, his hand on the brake. “Stop an automobile like this on such a pretext——?”
Aristide held up a protesting hand, and fixed the bear with the irresistible roguery of his eyes.
“Pardon, monsieur, I am also out of petrol. Forgive a father’s feelings. The baby wants milk and I want petrol, and I don’t know whose need is the more imperative. But if you could sell me enough petrol to carry me to Salon I should be most grateful.”