“Not he. Madame la Mère knew what she was doing when she picked out Bootles. He’ll get one of the sergeants’ wives to look after it; see if he don’t.” After the chief had left the room, Bootles continued his breakfast in silence, considering the two suggestions for the disposal of the child. Now, if the truth be told, Bootles had a horror of workhouses. He had gone deeply into the “Casual” question, and pitied a tramp from the very inmost recesses of his kind heart. It fairly made him sick to think of that bonny golden head growing up among the shorn and unlovely locks of a pauper brood—to think of the little soft fingers that had twined themselves so confidently about his own, and had picked at the embroideries of his mess waistcoat, being slapped by the matron, or set as soon as they should be strong enough to do coarse and hard work, to develop into the unnaturally widened and unkempt hand of a “Marchioness”—to think of that little dainty thing being nourished on skilly, or on whatever hard fare pauper children are fed—to think of that little aristocrat being brought up among the children of thieves and vagabonds! “Oh, confound it all,” he broke out, “I _can’t_.” “I never expected you could,” retorted Miles. “It wouldn’t be natural if you did.” This time Bootles did not laugh; on the contrary, he looked up and regarded Miles with a grave and searching gaze, rather disconcerting to that quizzical young gentleman. “Are you judging me out of your own bushel?” he asked. “How? What do you mean?” Miles stammered. “Do _you_ happen to know anything of the matter?” Bootles persisted. “I? Oh no. On my honor I don’t.” “Ah! As the colonel said just now, that settles the question. You’re a very witty fellow, Miles, very. I shouldn’t wonder, after a while, if you ain’t quite the sharp man of the regiment. Only your jokes are like the clown’s jokes at the circus—one gets to know them. They’re in this kind of way: “‘Ever been in Paris, Mr. Lando?’ “‘Yes, of course, Bell.’ “‘Ever been in Vienna, Mr. Lando?’ “‘To be sure, Bell.’ “‘Ever been in Geneva, Mr. Lando?’ “‘Of course I have, Bell.’ “‘Ever been in jail, Mr. Lando?’ “Of course I have, Bell—at least—that’s to say—I mean—no, of course I haven’t.’ “‘Why, Mr. Lando, I _saw_ you there.’ “‘You saw me in jail, Bell? And what were you doing to see me?’ “Oh!’ grandly, ‘I was staying with the governor for the good of my ’ealth.’ “‘And hadn’t stealing a cow something to do with it, eh, Bell?’ “‘Yah. Who stole a watch?’ “‘A Jersey cow, eh, Bell?’ “Yah. What time is it, Mr. Lando?’ “‘Just about milking time, Bell, my friend.’ “It’s all very funny once, you know, Miles,” Bootles ended, disdainfully. “But when you’ve been to the circus half a dozen times you don’t see anything to laugh at, somehow.” For grace’s sake Miles was obliged to laugh, for every one else roared, except Bootles, who went on speaking very gravely: