"Well, you are a rum little joker," he cried, as he packed the baby up between his knees, nipping its loose garments so as to hold its little form up steady, all but the head, which kept nodding at him, the tiny intelligence therein seeming to find something vastly amusing in the dark, robust man's face, and laughing merrily every now and then, after a staring, open-eyed inspection. "Keep your mouth shut, you drivelling little morsel, will you?" cried Geoffrey, using his pocket-handkerchief to the fount-like lips. "I enjoy you, young 'un, 'pon my word I do." Here there were three or four nods and another laugh. "Hold still, will you?" cried Geoffrey, "or you'll wobble that head off. There now, you're square. Good heavens! what a lot of toggery you have got on. Why don't she give you one good thick flannel sack, instead of all these stringed, and pinned, and buttoned wonders! That's right; go it. I'm comic, arn't I? Why, you jolly young jester, you are always on the grin." The baby relapsed into a state of solemnity, gently bowing its head forwards and backwards, and making a few awkward clutches at Geoffrey's nose, which was nearly a yard away. "Shouldn't have thought there was so much fun in a bit of a thing like this," continued Geoffrey, putting his hands behind his head, and resting them on the rock. "My ideas of a baby were that it was a sort of bagpipe that was always playing a discordant tune. Oh, I say, baby! for shame! I'm afraid your digestion is not perfect. In good society we always put our hand before our mouth when we make a noise like that. Here, this is the way. Hold still, you soft little atom. Why, I don't believe you've a bone in your body." Geoffrey's hands had come from behind his head once more, and he laughingly placed one tiny, clutched fist before the wet mouth, for by no amount of persuasion could the hand be made to keep open. "There, you fat little pudge, now hold still, and don't keep on laughing like a clown." Geoffrey resumed his former position, and stared at the baby, and the baby stared at him. "I suppose this is Geoffrey Trethick?" he said at last; "but if I had been coming along the cliff and saw myself I shouldn't have known him. Well, it is a chance to study human life and its helplessness. I begin to see now why women like babies. They're so soft, and helpless, and appealing. A baby is a something with which a woman can do just as she likes, for I suppose there is nothing a woman likes so much as having her own way." Here a spasm of mirth seemed to convulse the baby, which threw back its head and laughed, and babbled, and crowed. "Oh, you agree with that opinion, do you, youngster? Well, that's right. Hold still now. Do you hear? I don't want to take you home to your mother in two pieces. I wonder whether a baby ever did wobble off its head?" Here there was a pause, during which Geoffrey lay back with half-closed eyes, lazily watching his charge.