The Observations of Henry

“It isn’t that,” he answers, interrupting me; “but I don’t want you to laugh at me. I thought if you were a married man you would be able to understand the thing better. Have you got an intelligent woman in the house?”

“We’ve got women,” I says. “As to their intelligence, that’s a matter of opinion; they’re the average sort of women. Shall I call the chambermaid?”

“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 to chuckle 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 that they’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 he goes again, chuckling to himself.

“Well,” I says to myself, “I hope you’re a harmless specimen.” Then an idea 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 of that. Open it quickly.”

“I’d rather you came and opened it yourself, sir,” I says. I was beginning not to half like the business.

“I can’t,” he says, “after that suggestion of yours – you’ve put me all in a 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 to look 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, I should 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 the fireplace. “You know, I never thought of that,” he goes on. “He’s been shut up in that basket for over an hour, and if by any chance he’d managed to get his head entangled in the clothes – I’ll never do such a fool’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 the cover, is Coster King out of Starlight, his mother being Jenny Deans out of Darby the Devil.”

He looks at me in a nervous fashion, and puts the chair between us. It was evidently his turn to think as how I was mad. Satisfying himself, I suppose, that at all events I wasn’t dangerous, he crept closer till he could get a look inside the basket. I never heard a man give such an unearthly yell in all my life. He stood on one side of the bed and I on the other. The dog, awakened by the noise, sat up and grinned, first at one of us and then at the other. I took it to be a bull-pup of about nine months old, and a fine specimen for its age.

“My child!” he shrieks, with his eyes starting out of his head, “That thing 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 have such 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 your life, just thirteen weeks old on Sunday. He cut his first tooth yesterday.”

The sight of the dog’s face seemed to madden him. He flung himself upon the basket, and would, I believe, have strangled the poor beast if I hadn’t interposed between them.

“‘Tain’t the dog’s fault,” I says; “I daresay he’s as sick about the whole business as you are. He’s lost, too. Somebody’s been having a lark with you. They’ve took your baby out and put this in – that is, if there ever was a baby there.”

“What do you mean?” he says.

“Well, sir,” I says, “if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen in their sober senses don’t take their babies about in dog-baskets. Where do you come from?”

“From Banbury,” he says; “I’m well known in Banbury.”

“I can quite believe it,” I says; “you’re the sort of young man that would 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. My wife’s stopping here at Warwick, nursing her mother, and in every letter she’s written home for the last fortnight she’s said, ‘Oh, how I do long to 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 thought I’d bring the child here, so that she might see it, and see that it was all right. She can’t leave her mother for more than about an hour, and I can’t go up to the house, because the old lady doesn’t like me, and I excite her. I wish to wait here, and Milly – that’s my wife – was to come to 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 given her.”

“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 humorous side.

“But why,” I says, “put it in a dog-basket?”

“It isn’t a dog-basket,” he answers irritably; “it’s a picnic hamper. At the last moment I found I hadn’t got the face to carry the child in my arms: I thought of what the street-boys would call out after me. He’s a rare one to sleep, and I thought if I made him comfortable in that he couldn’t hurt, just for so short a journey. I took it in the carriage with me, and carried it on my knees; I haven’t let it out of my hands a blessed moment. It’s witchcraft, that’s what it is. I shall believe in the devil after this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I says, “there’s some explanation; it only wants finding. You are sure this is the identical hamper you packed the child in?”

He was calmer now. He leant over and examined it carefully. “It looks like it,” he says; “but I can’t swear to it.”

“You tell me,” I says, “you never let it go out of your hands. Now think.”