The coachman and footman sprang from the box and bent over the sleeping
Lamb.

"Fine boy--wish he was mine," said the coachman.

"He wouldn't favour _you_ much," said the groom sourly; "too 'andsome."

The coachman pretended not to hear. He said--

"Wonder at her now--I do really! Hates kids. Got none of her own, and
can't abide other folkses'."

The children, crouched in the white dust under the carriage, exchanged
uncomfortable glances.

"Tell you what," the coachman went on firmly, "blowed if I don't hide
the little nipper in the hedge and tell her his brothers took 'im! Then
I'll come back for him afterwards."

"No, you don't," said the footman. "I've took to that kid so as never
was. If anyone's to have him, it's me--so there!"

"Stop your talk!" the coachman rejoined. "You don't want no kids, and,
if you did, one kid's the same as another to you. But I'm a married man
and a judge of breed. I knows a firstrate yearling when I sees him. I'm
a-goin' to 'ave him, an' least said soonest mended."

"I should 'a' thought," said the footman sneeringly, "you'd a'most
enough. What with Alfred, an' Albert, an' Louise, an' Victor Stanley,