THE CALIFORNIAN (solemnly). I haven't got any baby, ma'am.

MRS. ROBERTS. No--no--I thought you were my baby.

THE CALIFORNIAN. Perhaps I am, ma'am; I've lost so much sleep I could
cry, anyway. Do I _look_ like your baby?

MRS. ROBERTS. No, no, you don't. [In distress that overcomes her
mortification.] Oh, where is my baby? I left him all uncovered, and
he'll take his death of cold, even if he doesn't roll out. Oh, Edward,
Edward, help me to find baby!

MR. ROBERTS (bustling aimlessly about). Yes, yes; certainly, my dear.
But don't be alarmed; we shall find him.

THE CALIFORNIAN (getting out in his stocking feet). We shall find him,
ma'am, if we have to search every berth in this car. Don't you take on.
That baby's going to be found if he's aboard the train, now, you bet! [He
looks about and then tears open the curtains of a berth at random.] That
your baby, ma'am?

MRS. ROBERTS (flying upon the infant thus exposed). Oh, _baby_, baby,
baby!! I thought I had lost you. Um! um! um!

[She clasps him in her arms, and covers his face and neck with kisses.]

THE CALIFORNIAN (as he gets back into his berth, sotto voce). I wish I
_had_ been her baby.