But the baby didn't need a poke in the ribs. It didn't need any other sort of resuscitation. Not _that_ baby! The self-dependent, courageous, perfectly competent and winning little rascal resuscitated itself. Instantly, too--and positively--and apparently without the least effort in the world. Moreover--and with remarkable directness--it demanded what it wanted--and got it. And having been nourished to its satisfaction from young Master Bartender's silver-mounted bottle (which John Fairmeadow then secretly slipped into his pocket)--and having yawned in a fashion so tremendous that Mrs. Bartender herself could never hope to equal that infinite expression of boredom--and having smiled, and having wriggled, and having giggled, and cooed, and attempted--actually attempted--to get its great toe in its mouth without extraneous assistance of any sort whatsoever--even without the slightest suggestion that such a thing would be an amazingly engaging trick in a baby of its age and degree--it burst into a gurgle of glee so wondrously genuine and infectious that poor, bored Mrs. Bartender herself was quite unable to resist it, and promptly, and publicly, and finally committed herself to the assertion that the baby was a dear, wherever it came from. John Fairmeadow snatched it from the table, and was about to make off with it, when Mrs. Bartender interposed. "My _dear_ Mr. Fairmeadow," said she, "that child will simply catch its _death_ of cold!" There was something handy, however--something of silk and fawn-skin--and with this enveloping the baby John Fairmeadow swung in a roar with it to the bar--and held it aloft in all that seething wickedness--pure symbol of the blessed Christmas festival. And there was a sensation, of course--a sensation beginning in vociferous ejaculations, but presently failing to a buzz of conjecture. There were questions to follow: to which John Fairmeadow answered that he had found the baby--that the baby was nobody's baby--that the baby was his baby by right of finders keepers--that the baby was everybody's baby--and that the baby would presently be somebody's much-loved baby, _that_ he'd vouch for! The baby, now resting content in John Fairmeadow's arms, was diffidently approached and examined. Gingerbread Jenkins poked a finger at it, and said, in a voice of the most inimical description, "Get out!" without disturbing the baby's serene equanimity in the slightest. Young Billy Lush, charging his soft, boyish voice with all the horrifying intent he could muster, threatened to "catch" the baby, as though bent upon devouring it on the spot; but the baby only chuckled with delight. Billy the Beast incautiously approached a finger near the baby's stout abdomen; and the baby--with a perfectly fearless glance into the very depths of the Beast's frowzy beard--clutched the finger and smiled like an angel. Long Butcher Long attempted to tweak the baby's nose; but the