Pattie Batch wanted a baby. Companionship, of course, would be a mere by-product of a baby's presence in the cabin; the real wealth and advantage would be a glowing satisfaction in the baby. At any rate, Pattie Batch wanted one: she always had--and she simply couldn't help it. Babies, however, were not numerous at Swamp's End; in point of fact, there was only one--a perfectly adorable infant, it must be understood, a suitable child, and worthy, in every respect, of being heartily desired by any woman--which unhappily belonged to the bartender who lived with Pale Peter of the Red Elephant saloon. No use asking for _that_ baby! Not outright. It could be borrowed, however. Pattie Batch _had_ borrowed it; she had borrowed it frequently, of late, and had mysteriously measured it with a calculating eye, and had estimated, and scowled in doubt, and scratched her head, and pursed her sweet red lips, and had secretly spanned the baby, from chin to toe and across the back, with an industriously inquiring thumb and little finger. But a borrowed baby, it seems, is of no use whatsoever; the satisfaction is said to be temporary--nothing more--and to leave a sense of vacant arms and a stinging aggravation of envy. So what Pattie Batch wanted was a baby to _keep_--a baby she could call her own and cherish against meddling--a baby that should be so rosy and fat and curly, so neat and white, so scrubbed and highly polished from crown to toe-nails, that every mother in the land, beholding, would promptly expire on the spot of amazement, incredulity and sheer jealousy. There were babies at Elegant Corners--a frowzy, listless mud-hole of the woods, near by. They were all possessed by one mother, too. The last comer had appeared in the fall of the year; and Pattie Batch--when the great news came down to Swamp's End--had instantly taken the trail for Elegant Corners. "Got another, eh?" says she, flatly, to the wretched Mrs. Limp. "Uh-huh!" Mrs. Limp sighed and rolled her eyes, as though, God save us! the ultimate misfortune had fallen upon her. "Number eight," she groaned. "Don't you _like_ it?" Pattie demanded, hopefully. Mrs. Limp was so deeply submerged in tears that she failed to commit herself. "You _don't_ like it, eh?" Pattie pursued, hope immediately abounding. Mrs. Limp sniffed. "Well," said Pattie, her little heart all in a flutter--she was afflicted, too, with an adorable lisp in excitement--"I th'pothe I _ought_ t' be _thorry_." Mrs. Limp seemed dolefully to agree. Pattie Batch came then straight to the point. "I been thavin' up," said she. "I been hard at it for more 'n theven monthth." Mrs. Limp lifted her blue eyelids. "Yep," said Pattie, briskly; "an' I got thirty-four twenty-three right here in my thkirt. _Where'th that baby?_" The baby was fetched and deposited in her arms. "Boy or girl?" Pattie inquired, with business-like precision. "Boy," Mrs. Limp sighed, "thank God!"