ight poke in the ribs--provoke animation?"

But the baby didn't need a poke in the ribs. It didn't need any other
sort of resuscitation. Not _that_ baby! The self-dependent, courageous,
perfectly competent and winning little rascal resuscitated itself.
Instantly, too--and positively--and apparently without the least effort
in the world. Moreover--and with remarkable directness--it demanded what
it wanted--and got it. And having been nourished to its satisfaction
from young Master Bartender's silver-mounted bottle (which John
Fairmeadow then secretly slipped into his pocket)--and having yawned in
a fashion so tremendous that Mrs. Bartender herself could never hope to
equal that infinite expression of boredom--and having smiled, and having
wriggled, and having giggled, and cooed, and attempted--actually
attempted--to get its great toe in its mouth without extraneous
assistance of any sort whatsoever--even without the slightest suggestion
that such a thing would be an amazingly engaging trick in a baby of its
age and degree--it burst into a gurgle of glee so wondrously genuine and
infectious that poor, bored Mrs. Bartender herself was quite unable to
resist it, and promptly, and publicly, and finally committed herself to
the assertion that the baby was a dear, wherever it came from.

John Fairmeadow snatched it from the table, and was about to make off
with it, when Mrs. Bartender interposed.

"My _dear_ Mr. Fairmeadow," said she, "that child will simply catch its
_death_ of cold!"

There was something handy, however--something of silk and fawn-skin--and
with this enveloping the baby John Fairmeadow swung in a roar with it to
the bar--and held it aloft in all that seething wickedness--pure symbol
of the blessed Christmas festival. And there was a sensation, of
course--a sensation beginning in vociferous ejaculations, but presently
failing to a buzz of conjecture. There were questions to follow: to
which John Fairmeadow answered that he had found the baby--that the baby
was nobody's baby--that the baby was his baby by right of finders
keepers--that the baby was everybody's baby--and that the baby would
presently be somebody's much-loved baby, _that_ he'd vouch for! The
baby, now resting content in John Fairmeadow's arms, was diffidently
approached and examined. Gingerbread Jenkins poked a finger at it, and
said, in a voice of the most inimical description, "Get out!" without
disturbing the baby's serene equanimity in the