Dickory Dock | Page 9

coming back into empty arms and more empty heart,
and then turned again to the children.
{She took the baby tenderly: p47.jpg}
'I must be mad to do such a thing,' she said. 'Two little waifs in the
street come and offer me a baby, and I don't refuse it! There, baby,' for
Dickory began to cry again, 'there, baby--hush, sweet--hush, dear little
baby, hush.'
This lady's voice had quite a new tone for Dickory, a sweeter tone even
than Peter's or Flossy's. She stopped crying at once.
'Our baby takes to you, ma'am,' said Flossy, in a voice of thrilling
interest.
Peter, very pale, and still silent, drew a step nearer.
'Well, children,' said the lady, 'I have made up my mind. I'll take this
baby home for the night. My husband will think me mad--anyone in
their senses would think me mad, but I'm nearly wild with
mother-hunger, and that little mite there,' pointing to Flossy, 'guessed it,
and she brought me the baby, and I say God bless her for it, whether
she's a ragamuffin or not. Yes, I have made up my mind. I shall take the
baby home for to- night at least. In the morning I shall make inquiries,
but for to-night the baby is mine.'
'Half milk, half water in her bottle,' said Peter in a very grave
reproachful voice. 'Half milk, half water, and a little sugar, and a pinch
of salt, and Dickory likes her feet kept werry warm. Come home,

Flossy.'
'And we are not ragamuffins, please lady,' said Flossy. 'Our name is
Franklin, and we live in 24 Montfiore Square. We lets lodgings, please
lady, and it was Mr Martin what turned so crusty about baby.'
'Tell your mother I will come and see her to-morrow,' said the lady.
'You have a mother, I suppose?'
'Yes, oh yes. She wanted to send the baby to the workhouse.'
'I don't think that will be necessary. My name is Ross. Tell your mother
to expect me to-morrow.'
CHAPTER III.
It is one thing to feel very angry about a baby, and another to wish that
helpless little atom of humanity positive ill. Mr Martin was an old
bachelor, and even mothers could scarcely blame him for objecting to
having his first sweet sleep disturbed by the wailings of a child who
was cutting its teeth. Mr Martin meant what he said when he proposed
to change lodgings.
'Some one else can have my present room,' he remarked. 'It would be
preposterous to send that infant to the workhouse. A less sensitive
person than I am can occupy my present parlour and bedroom;
comfortable rooms, too.' He sighed as he went out.
He was a man who disliked change, and he felt that he had been treated
badly. Mrs Franklin had no right to bring a wailing niece of a few
weeks old into the house where he lived, and it was unfair and
inconsiderate. Well, there was no help for it; the baby had come and
could not be displaced, and now there was nothing for it but for him to
engage the rooms opposite, which were certainly not nearly so nice, nor
so much to his taste. He had promised Mrs Franklin that he would give
her a short time to consider, but in his heart of hearts he was quite
certain that he must take the detested step.

Mr Martin was a retired merchant. He had plenty of money, and his
working days were over. He generally went to his club in the morning,
and he always returned about one o'clock in the day to a comfortable
mid- day repast. Always sharp as the clock struck one, Martha placed
upon Mr Martin's board a smoking steak done to perfection. He had the
same lunch every day--he drank a glass of ale with his steak. He
required this simple meal to be served with regularity. He insisted that
his steak should always be tender and properly cooked--that was all--he
would not have stayed a week in any lodgings where the landlady could
not provide him with his steak and glass of beer as he liked them, sharp
at one o'clock.
To-day he returned as usual, sighing a little as he entered the square.
What a troublesome baby that was! What a nuisance it would be to
move! He doubted very much if the people opposite knew how to cook
steak. He let himself into the house with his latchkey, hung up his coat
and hat in the hall--he was a most methodical old gentleman--and
turned into his parlour. He expected the usual scene to meet his eyes,
the fire burning brightly, a snowy cloth on the table, and Martha in the
act of placing an appetising covered dish on the board. This