Thereupon the assembled officers, five of them, trooped along the way Bootles had stumbled over alone in the blindness of his now forgotten headache. The baby was still in the cot, contentedly playing with the watch and chain, and at the sight of the five resplendent figures it set up a loud “Boo—boo—boo—ing,” followed by a “Chucka—chucka—chucka—ing.” Evidently it considered this was the land of Goshen. “Seems to take after its mother in its love for a scarlet jacket,” remarked Miles, sententiously. “I’ve heard that the child is father of the man—seems of the woman too.” “Bootles,” said Lacy, gravely, “isn’t it very pwretty?” “Yes, poor little beggar.” “Let’s see you nurse it,” cried Hartog. So Bootles, proud of this new accomplishment, lifted the child awkwardly in his arms, pretty much as he might have done if it had been a sackful of eggs, and he had made a wager he wouldn’t break one of them. He carried it to the fire. [Picture: Let’s go and have a look at it] “Just light the candles, one of you,” he said. “It’s the image of Bootles,” persisted Miles. “Well, it isn’t mine, except by deed of gift,” returned Bootles, with a laugh. “Bootles,” said Lacy, “look back over your past life—” Here he made a pause. “Well?” said Bootles, expectantly. “Twry to think if you can twrace any likeness to some early love, who may have marwried—or, for that matter, _not_ have marwried—some one else, and—er—wremembering your kind heart—for you have a dashed kind heart, Bootles, there’s no denying it—may have found herself hard up or too much encumbered—for—er—you know, a babay is sometimes an awkward addition to a lady’s belongings—and may have twrusted to your—er—general—well, shall we say softness of chawracter to see it well pwrovided for—er—see?” “No, I don’t. Of course I see what you mean, but I can’t—” “Well—er—” Lacy broke in, “I—er—pewraps was not thinking so much of _your_ case as of my own. You see,” appealing to the other three, “the advent of this—er—babay cwreates a precedent, and—er—if it should chance to occur to my first love—it would be awkward—for me, very awkward. Her name,” plunging headlong into a story they all knew, “was Naomi, and—er—she—er—in fact, jilted me for an elephantine parson, whose reverend name was—er—Fligg, Solomon Fligg. Now, if Mrs.—er—Solomon Fligg was to take it into her head to pack up the—er—eleven little Fliggs and send ’em to me—it would be what I should call awkward—devilish awkward.” Lacy’s four hearers positively roared, and the baby on Bootles’s knee chuckled and crowed with delight. “I believe it understands,” Preston laughed. “No. But it seems a jolly little chap,” answered Bootles. “Oh, I forgot, ’tis a girl. I say, I do wish you fellows would advise me what to do. How can I get any one to attend to it?” “Oh, roll it up in the bedclothes and sleep on the sofa. It will go to sleep when it’s tired,” said one.