The Suprise of Mr. Milberry
"It's not the sort of thing to tell 'em," remarked Henry, as, with hisnapkin over his arm, he leant against one of the pillars of the verandah,and sipped the glass of Burgundy I had poured out for him; "and theywouldn't believe it if you did tell 'em, not one of 'em. But it's thetruth, for all that. Without the clothes they couldn't do it.""Who wouldn't believe what?" I asked. He had a curious habit, had Henry,of commenting aloud upon his own unspoken thoughts, thereby bestowingupon his conversation much of the quality of the double acrostic. We hadbeen discussing the question whether sardines served their purpose betteras a hors d'oeuvre or as a savoury; and I found myself wondering for themoment why sardines, above all other fish, should be of an unbelievingnature; while endeavouring to picture to myself the costume best adaptedto display the somewhat difficult figure of a sardine. Henry put downhis glass, and came to my rescue with the necessary explanation."Why, women--that they can tell one baby from another, without itsclothes. I've got a sister, a monthly nurse, and she will tell you for afact, if you care to ask her, that up to three months of age there isn'treally any difference between 'em. You can tell a girl from a boy and aChristian child from a black heathen, perhaps; but to fancy you can putyour finger on an unclothed infant and say: 'That's a Smith, or that's aJones,' as the case may be--why, it's sheer nonsense. Take the thingsoff 'em, and shake them up in a blanket, and I'll bet you what you likethat which is which you'd never be able to tell again so long as youlived."I agreed with Henry, so far as my own personal powers of discriminationmight be concerned, but I suggested that to Mrs. Jones or Mrs. Smiththere would surely occur some means of identification."So they'd tell you themselves, no doubt," replied Henry; "and of course,I am not thinking of cases where the child might have a mole or a squint,as might come in useful. But take 'em in general, kids are as much alikeas sardines of the same age would be. Anyhow, I knew a case where a foolof a young nurse mixed up two children at an hotel, and to this dayneither of those women is sure that she's got her own.""Do you mean," I said, "there was no possible means of distinguishing?""There wasn't a flea-bite to go by," answered Henry. "They had the samebumps, the same pimples, the same scratches; they were the same age towithin three days; they weighed the same to an ounce; and they measuredthe same to an inch. One father was tall and fair, and the other wasshort and dark. The tall, fair man had a dark, short wife; and theshort, dark man had married a tall, fair woman. For a week they changedthose kids to and fro a dozen times a day, and cried and quarrelled overthem. Each woman felt sure she was the mother of the one that wascrowing at the moment, and when it yelled she was positive it was nochild of hers. They thought they would trust to the instinct of thechildren. Neither child, so long as it wasn't hungry, appeared to care acurse for anybody; and when it was hungry it always wanted the motherthat the other kid had got. They decided, in the end, to leave it totime. It's three years ago now, and possibly enough some likeness to theparents will develop that will settle the question. All I say is, up tothree months old you can't tell 'em, I don't care who says you can."He paused, and appeared to be absorbed in contemplation of the distantMatterhorn, then clad in its rosy robe of evening. There was a vein ofpoetry in Henry, not uncommon among cooks and waiters. The perpetualatmosphere of hot food I am inclined to think favourable to the growth ofthe softer emotions. One of the most sentimental men I ever knew kept aham-and-beef shop just off the Farringdon Road. In the early morning hecould be shrewd and business-like, but when hovering with a knife andfork above the mingled steam of bubbling sausages and hissingpeas-pudding, any whimpering tramp with any impossible tale of woe couldimpose upon him easily."But the rummiest go I ever recollect in connection with a baby,"continued Henry after a while, his gaze still fixed upon the distant snow-crowned peaks, "happened to me at Warwick in the Jubilee year. I'llnever forget that.""Is it a proper story," I asked, "a story fit for me to hear?"On consideration, Henry saw no harm in it, and told it to me accordingly.* * * * *He came by the 'bus that meets the 4.52. He'd a handbag and a sort ofhamper: it looked to me like a linen-basket. He wouldn't let the Bootstouch the hamper, but carried it up into his bedroom himself. He carriedit in front of him by the handles, and grazed his knuckles at everysecond step. He slipped going round the bend of the stairs, and knockedhis head a rattling good thump against the balustrade; but he never letgo that hamper--only swore and plunged on. I could see he was nervousand excited, but one gets used to nervous and excited people in hotels.Whether a man's running away from a thing, or running after a thing, hestops at a hotel on his way; and so long as he looks as if he could payhis bill one doesn't trouble much about him. But this man interested me:he was so uncommonly young and innocent-looking. Besides, it was a dullhole of a place after the sort of jobs I'd been used to; and when you'vebeen doing nothing for three months but waiting on commercial gents asare having an exceptionally bad season, and spoony couples with guide-books, you get a bit depressed, and welcome any incident, however slight,that promises to be out of the common.I followed him up into his room, and asked him if I could do anything forhim. He flopped the hamper on the bed with a sigh of relief, took offhis hat, wiped his head with his handkerchief, and then turned to answerme."Are you a married man?" says he.It was an odd question to put to a waiter, but coming from a gent therewas nothing to be alarmed about."Well, not exactly," I says--I was only engaged at that time, and thatnot to my wife, if you understand what I mean--"but I know a good dealabout it," I says, "and if it's a matter of advice--""It isn't that," he answers, interrupting me; "but I don't want you tolaugh at me. I thought if you were a married man you would be able tounderstand the thing better. Have you got an intelligent woman in thehouse?""We've got women," I says. "As to their intelligence, that's a matter ofopinion; they're the average sort of women. Shall I call thechambermaid?""Ah, do," he says. "Wait a minute," he says; "we'll open it first."He began to fumble with the cord, then he suddenly lets go and begins tochuckle to himself."No," he says, "you open it. Open it carefully; it will surprise you."I don't take much stock in surprises myself. My experience is thatthey're mostly unpleasant."What's in it?" I says."You'll see if you open it," he says: "it won't hurt you." And off hegoes again, chuckling to himself."Well," I says to myself, "I hope you're a harmless specimen." Then anidea struck me, and I stopped with the knot in my fingers."It ain't a corpse," I says, "is it?"He turned as white as the sheet on the bed, and clutched the mantlepiece."Good God! don't suggest such a thing," he says; "I never thought ofthat. Open it quickly.""I'd rather you came and opened it yourself, sir," I says. I wasbeginning not to half like the business."I can't," he says, "after that suggestion of yours--you've put me all ina tremble. Open it quick, man; tell me it's all right."Well, my own curiosity helped me. I cut the cord, threw open the lid,and looked in. He kept his eyes turned away, as if he were frightened tolook for himself."Is it all right?" he says. "Is it alive?""It's about as alive," I says, "as anybody'll ever want it to be, Ishould say.""Is it breathing all right?" he says."If you can't hear it breathing," I says, "I'm afraid you're deaf."You might have heard its breathing outside in the street. He listened,and even he was satisfied."Thank Heaven!" he says, and down he plumped in the easy-chair by thefireplace. "You know, I never thought of that," he goes on. "He's beenshut up in that basket for over an hour, and if by any chance he'dmanaged to get his head entangled in the clothes--I'll never do such afool's trick again!""You're fond of it?" I says.He looked round at me. "Fond of it," he repeats. "Why, I'm his father."And then he begins to laugh again."Oh!" I says. "Then I presume I have the pleasure of addressing Mr.Coster King?""Coster King?" he answers in surprise. "My name's Milberry."I says: "The father of this child, according to the label inside thecover, is Coster King out of Starlight, his mother being Jenny Deans outof Darby the Devil."He looks at me in a nervous fashion, and puts the chair between us. Itwas evidently his turn to think as how I was mad. Satisfying himself, Isuppose, that at all events I wasn't dangerous, he crept closer till hecould get a look inside the basket. I never heard a man give such anunearthly yell in all my life. He stood on one side of the bed and I onthe other. The dog, awakened by the noise, sat up and grinned, first atone of us and then at the other. I took it to be a bull-pup of aboutnine months old, and a fine specimen for its age."My child!" he shrieks, with his eyes starting out of his head, "Thatthing isn't my child. What's happened? Am I going mad?""You're on that way," I says, and so he was. "Calm yourself," I says;"what did you expect to see?""My child," he shrieks again; "my only child--my baby!""Do you mean a real child?" I says, "a human child?" Some folks havesuch a silly way of talking about their dogs--you never can tell."Of course I do," he says; "the prettiest child you ever saw in all yourlife, just thirteen weeks old on Sunday. He cut his first toothyesterday."The sight of the dog's face seemed to madden him. He flung himself uponthe basket, and would, I believe, have strangled the poor beast if Ihadn't interposed between them."'Tain't the dog's fault," I says; "I daresay he's as sick about thewhole business as you are. He's lost, too. Somebody's been having alark with you. They've took your baby out and put this in--that is, ifthere ever was a baby there.""What do you mean?" he says."Well, sir," I says, "if you'll excuse me, gentlemen in their sobersenses don't take their babies about in dog-baskets. Where do you comefrom?""From Banbury," he says; "I'm well known in Banbury.""I can quite believe it," I says; "you're the sort of young man thatwould be known anywhere.""I'm Mr. Milberry," he says, "the grocer, in the High Street.""Then what are you doing here with this dog?" I says."Don't irritate me," he answers. "I tell you I don't know myself. Mywife's stopping here at Warwick, nursing her mother, and in every lettershe's written home for the last fortnight she's said, 'Oh, how I do longto see Eric! If only I could see Eric for a moment!'""A very motherly sentiment," I says, "which does her credit.""So this afternoon," continues he, "it being early-closing day, I thoughtI'd bring the child here, so that she might see it, and see that it wasall right. She can't leave her mother for more than about an hour, and Ican't go up to the house, because the old lady doesn't like me, and Iexcite her. I wish to wait here, and Milly--that's my wife--was to cometo me when she could get away. I meant this to be a surprise to her.""And I guess," I says, "it will be the biggest one you have ever givenher.""Don't try to be funny about it," he says; "I'm not altogether myself,and I may do you an injury."He was right. It wasn't a subject for joking, though it had its humorousside."But why," I says, "put it in a dog-basket?""It isn't a dog-basket," he answers irritably; "it's a picnic hamper. Atthe last moment I found I hadn't got the face to carry the child in myarms: I thought of what the street-boys would call out after me. He's arare one to sleep, and I thought if I made him comfortable in that hecouldn't hurt, just for so short a journey. I took it in the carriagewith me, and carried it on my knees; I haven't let it out of my hands ablessed moment. It's witchcraft, that's what it is. I shall believe inthe devil after this.""Don't be ridiculous," I says, "there's some explanation; it only wantsfinding. You are sure this is the identical hamper you packed the childin?"He was calmer now. He leant over and examined it carefully. "It lookslike it," he says; "but I can't swear to it.""You tell me," I says, "you never let it go out of your hands. Nowthink.""No," he says, "it's been on my knees all the time.""But that's nonsense," I says; "unless you packed the dog yourself inmistake for your baby. Now think it over quietly. I'm not your wife,I'm only trying to help you. I shan't say anything even if you did takeyour eyes off the thing for a minute."He thought again, and a light broke over his face. "By Jove!" he says,"you're right. I did put it down for a moment on the platform at Banburywhile I bought a 'Tit-Bits.'""There you are," I says; "now you're talking sense. And wait a minute;isn't to-morrow the first day of the Birmingham Dog Show?""I believe you're right," he says."Now we're getting warm," I says. "By a coincidence this dog was beingtaken to Birmingham, packed in a hamper exactly similar to the one youput your baby in. You've got this man's bull-pup, he's got your baby;and I wouldn't like to say off-hand at this moment which of you's feelingthe madder. As likely as not, he thinks you've done it on purpose."He leant his head against the bed-post and groaned. "Milly may be hereat any moment," says he, "and I'll have to tell her the baby's been sentby mistake to a Dog Show! I daresn't do it," he says, "I daresn't doit.""Go on to Birmingham," I says, "and try and find it. You can catch thequarter to six and be back here before eight.""Come with me," he says; "you're a good man, come with me. I ain't fitto go by myself."He was right; he'd have got run over outside the door, the state he wasin then."Well," I says, "if the guv'nor don't object--""Oh! he won't, he can't," cries the young fellow, wringing his hands."Tell him it's a matter of a life's happiness. Tell him--""I'll tell him it's a matter of half sovereign extra on to the bill," Isays. "That'll more likely do the trick."And so it did, with the result that in another twenty minutes me andyoung Milberry and the bull-pup in its hamper were in a third-classcarriage on our way to Birmingham. Then the difficulties of the chasebegan to occur to me. Suppose by luck I was right; suppose the pup wasbooked for the Birmingham Dog Show; and suppose by a bit more luck a gentwith a hamper answering description had been noticed getting out of the5.13 train; then where were we? We might have to interview every cabmanin the town. As likely as not, by the time we did find the kid, itwouldn't be worth the trouble of unpacking. Still, it wasn't my cue toblab my thoughts. The father, poor fellow, was feeling, I take it, justabout as bad as he wanted to feel. My business was to put hope into him;so when he asked me for about the twentieth time if I thought as he wouldever see his child alive again, I snapped him up shortish."Don't you fret yourself about that," I says. "You'll see a good deal ofthat child before you've done with it. Babies ain't the sort of thingsas gets lost easily. It's only on the stage that folks ever have anyparticular use for other people's children. I've known some badcharacters in my time, but I'd have trusted the worst of 'em with a wagon-load of other people's kids. Don't you flatter yourself you're going tolose it! Whoever's got it, you take it from me, his idea is to do thehonest thing, and never rest till he's succeeded in returning it to therightful owner."Well, my talking like that cheered him, and when we reached Birmingham hewas easier. We tackled the station-master, and he tackled all theporters who could have been about the platform when the 5.13 came in. Allof 'em agreed that no gent got out of that train carrying a hamper. Thestation-master was a family man himself, and when we explained the caseto him he sympathised and telegraphed to Banbury. The booking-clerk atBanbury remembered only three gents booking by that particular train. Onehad been Mr. Jessop, the corn-chandler; the second was a stranger, whohad booked to Wolverhampton; and the third had been young Milberryhimself. The business began to look hopeless, when one of Smith'snewsboys, who was hanging around, struck in:"I see an old lady," says he, "hovering about outside the station, and a-hailing cabs, and she had a hamper with her as was as like that one thereas two peas."I thought young Milberry would have fallen upon the boy's neck and kissedhim. With the boy to help us, we started among the cabmen. Old ladieswith dog-baskets ain't so difficult to trace. She had gone to a smallsecond-rate hotel in the Aston Road. I heard all particulars from thechambermaid, and the old girl seems to have had as bad a time in her wayas my gent had in his. They couldn't get the hamper into the cab, it hadto go on the top. The old lady was very worried, as it was raining atthe time, and she made the cabman cover it with his apron. Getting itoff the cab they dropped the whole thing in the road; that woke the childup, and it began to cry."Good Lord, Ma'am! what is it?" asks the chambermaid, "a baby?""Yes, my dear, it's my baby," answers the old lady, who seems to havebeen a cheerful sort of old soul--leastways, she was cheerful up to then."Poor dear, I hope they haven't hurt him."The old lady had ordered a room with a fire in it. The Boots took thehamper up, and laid it on the hearthrug. The old lady said she and thechambermaid would see to it, and turned him out. By this time, accordingto the girl's account, it was roaring like a steam-siren."Pretty dear!" says the old lady, fumbling with the cord, "don't cry;mother's opening it as fast as she can." Then she turns to thechambermaid--"If you open my bag," says she, "you will find a bottle ofmilk and some dog-biscuits.""Dog-biscuits!" says the chambermaid."Yes," says the old lady, laughing, "my baby loves dog-biscuits."The girl opened the bag, and there, sure enough, was a bottle of milk andhalf a dozen Spratt's biscuits. She had her back to the old lady, whenshe heard a sort of a groan and a thud as made her turn round. The oldlady was lying stretched dead on the hearthrug--so the chambermaidthought. The kid was sitting up in the hamper yelling the roof off. Inher excitement, not knowing what she was doing, she handed it a biscuit,which it snatched at greedily and began sucking.Then she set to work to slap the old lady back to life again. In about aminute the poor old soul opened her eyes and looked round. The baby wasquiet now, gnawing the dog-biscuit. The old lady looked at the child,then turned and hid her face against the chambermaid's bosom."What is it?" she says, speaking in an awed voice. "The thing in thehamper?""It's a baby, Ma'am," says the maid."You're sure it ain't a dog?" says the old lady. "Look again."The girl began to feel nervous, and to wish that she wasn't alone withthe old lady."I ain't likely to mistake a dog for a baby, Ma'am," says the girl. "It'sa child--a human infant."The old lady began to cry softly. "It's a judgment on me," she says. "Iused to talk to that dog as if it had been a Christian, and now thisthing has happened as a punishment.""What's happened?" says the chambermaid, who was naturally enough growingmore and more curious."I don't know," says the old lady, sitting up on the floor. "If thisisn't a dream, and if I ain't mad, I started from my home at Farthinghoe,two hours ago, with a one-year-old bulldog packed in that hamper. Yousaw me open it; you see what's inside it now.""But bulldogs," says the chambermaid, "ain't changed into babies bymagic.""I don't know how it's done," says the old lady, "and I don't see that itmatters. I know I started with a bulldog, and somehow or other it's gotturned into that.""Somebody's put it there," says the chambermaid; "somebody as wanted toget rid of a child. They've took your dog out and put that in itsplace.""They must have been precious smart," says the old lady; "the hamperhasn't been out of my sight for more than five minutes, when I went intothe refreshment-room at Banbury for a cup of tea.""That's when they did it," says the chambermaid, "and a clever trick itwas."The old lady suddenly grasped her position, and jumped up from the floor."And a nice thing for me," she says. "An unmarried woman in a scandal-mongering village! This is awful!""It's a fine-looking child," says the chambermaid."Would you like it?" says the old lady.The chambermaid said she wouldn't. The old lady sat down and tried tothink, and the more she thought the worse she felt. The chambermaid waspositive that if we hadn't come when we did the poor creature would havegone mad. When the Boots appeared at the door to say there was a gentand a bulldog downstairs enquiring after a baby, she flung her arms roundthe man's neck and hugged him.We just caught the train to Warwick, and by luck got back to the hotelten minutes before the mother turned up. Young Milberry carried thechild in his arms all the way. He said I could have the hamper formyself, and gave me half-a-sovereign extra on the understanding that Ikept my mouth shut, which I did.I don't think he ever told the child's mother what hadhappened--leastways, if he wasn't a fool right through, he didn't.
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