"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."