enter the bar of the Red
Elephant, waited in seclusion across the windy street.

* * * * *

Mrs. Bartender was still yawning as John Fairmeadow entered upon her
_ennui_; but when the big minister, exercising the softest sort of
caution, slipped off his gigantic pack, and deposited it with
exquisitely delicate care, and a face of deep concern, on the table, she
opened her faded eyes with interested curiosity. And as for the contents
of the pack, there's no more concealing them! The article must now be
declared and produced. It was a baby. Of course, it was a baby! The
thing has been obvious all along. John Fairmeadow's foundling: left in a
basket at the threshold of his temporary lodging-room at Big Rapids that
very morning--first to John Fairmeadow's consternation, and then to his
gleeful delight. As for the baby itself--it was presently unswathed--it
is quite beyond me to describe its excellencies of appearance and
conduct. John Fairmeadow himself couldn't make the attempt and escape
annihilation. It was a real and regular baby, however. One might
suggest, in inadequate description, that it was a plump baby; one might
add that it was a lusty baby. It had hair; it had a pucker of amazement;
its eyes, two of them, were properly disposed in its head; its hands
were of what are called rose-leaf dimensions; it had, apparently, a
fixed habit of squirming; it had no teeth. Evidently a healthy baby--a
baby that any mother might be proud of--doubtless a marvel of infantile
perfection in every respect. I should not venture to dispute such an
assertion; nor would John Fairmeadow--nor any other bold gentleman of
Swamp's End and Elegant Corners--_not in these later days_!

Mrs. Bartender, of course, lifted her languid white hands in uttermost
astonishment.

"There!" John Fairmeadow exploded, looking round like a showman. "What
d'ye think o' _that_? Eh?"

"But, Mr. Fairmeadow," the poor lady stammered, "what have you brought
it _here_ for?"

"Why not?" John Fairmeadow demanded. "Why not, indeed? It's perfectly
polite."

"What am I to _do_ with it?"

"It isn't intoxicated, my good woman," John Fairmeadow ran on, in great
wrath; "and it's never been in jail."

"But my _dear_ Mr. Fairmeadow, do be sensible; what am I to _do_ with
it?"

"Why, ah--I should think," John Fairmeadow ventured--the baby was still
sleeping like a brick--"that you might first of all--ah--resuscitate it.
Would a--a sl