bedroom, and he could also, whenever he felt inclined, glance down the stairway.
He waited, with the patience and the fatalism of infancy, for something to happen.
After an interval of time not mathematically to be computed, Tom heard a step on the stairs, and looked forth. A tall gentleman wearing a high hat and carrying a black bag was ascending. In a flash Tom recollected a talk with his dead father, in which that glorious and gay parent had explained to him that he, Tom, had been brought to his mother's room by the doctor in a black bag.
Tom pulled open the door at the head of the stairs, went outside, and drew the door to behind him.
'Are you the doctor?' he demanded, staring intently at the bag to see whether anything wriggled within.
'Yes, my man,' said the doctor. It was Quain Short, wrenched from the Alhambra.
'Well, they don't want another one. They've got one,' Tom asserted, still observing the bag.
'You're sure?'
'Yes. Aunt Annie said particularly that they didn't want another one.'
'Who is it that has come? Do you know his name? Christopher—is that it?'
'I don't know his name. But he's come, and he's in the bedroom now, with Aunt Susan.'
'How annoying!' said Dr. Quain Short under his breath, and he went.
Tom re-entered, and took up his old position behind the portière.
Presently he heard another step on the stair, and issued out again to reconnoitre. And, lo! another tall gentleman wearing another high hat and carrying another black bag was ascending.
'This makes three,' Tom said.
'What's that, my little man?' asked the gentleman, smiling. It was Dr. Christopher.
'This makes three. And they only want one. The first one came ever such a long time ago. And I can tell you Aunt Susan was very glad when he did come.'
'Dear, dear!' exclaimed Dr. Christopher. 'Then I'm too late, my little man. I was afraid I might be. Everything all right, eh?'
Tom nodded, and Dr. Christopher departed.
And then, after a further pause, up came another tall gentleman, high hat, and black bag.
'This is four,' said Tom.
'What's that, Tommy?' asked Mr. Henry Knight's regular physician and surgeon. 'What are you doing there?'
'One came hours since,' Tom said. 'And they don't want any more.' Then he gazed at the bag, which was larger and glossier than its predecessors. 'Have you brought a very nice one?' he inquired. 'They don't really want another, but perhaps if it's very——'
It was this momentary uncertainty on Tom's part that possibly saved my hero's life. For the parents were quite inexperienced, and Mrs. Puddiphatt was an accoucheuse of the sixties, and the newborn child was near to dying in the bedroom without anybody being aware of the fact.
'A very nice what?' the doctor questioned gruffly.
'Baby. In that bag,' Tom stammered.
'Out of the way, my bold buccaneer,' said the doctor, striding across the mat into the corridor.
At two o'clock the next morning, Tom being asleep, and all going well with wife and child, Mr. Henry Knight returned at length to his sitting-room, and resumed the composition of the letter to the editor of the Standard. The work existed as an artistic whole in his head, and he could not persuade himself to seek rest until he had got it down in black-and-white; for, though he wrote letters instead of sonnets, he was nevertheless a sort of a poet by temperament. You behold him calm now, master once more of his emotions, and not that agitated, pompous, and slightly ridiculous person who lately stamped over Oxford Street and stormed the Alhambra Theatre. And in order to help the excellent father of my hero back into your esteem, let me point out that the imminence and the actuality of fatherhood constitute a somewhat disturbing experience, which does not occur to a man every day.
Mr. Knight dipped pen in ink, and continued:
' … who I hold to be not only the greatest poet, but also the greatest moral teacher that England has ever produced,
'"To thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."
'In conclusion, sir, I ask, without fear of contradiction, are we or are we not, in this matter of the National Debt, to be true to our national selves?
'Yours obediently,
'A Conscientious Taxpayer.'
The signature troubled him. His pen hovered threateningly over it, and finally he struck it out and wrote instead: 'Paterfamilias.' He felt that this pseudonym was perhaps a little inapposite, but some impulse stronger than himself forced him to employ it.
CHAPTER III
HIS CHRISTENING
'But haven't I told you that I was just writing the very name when Annie came in to warn me?'
Mr. Knight addressed the question, kindly and mildly, yet with a hint of annoyance, to his young wife, who was nursing their son with all the experience of three months' practice. It was Sunday morning, and they had finished breakfast in the sitting-room. Within an hour or two the heir was to be taken to the Great Queen Street Wesleyan Methodist Chapel for the solemn rite of baptism.
'Yes, lovey,' said Mrs. Knight. 'You've told me, time and again. But, oh Henry! Your name's just Henry Knight, and I want his to be just Henry Knight, too! I want him to be called after you.'
And the mother, buxom, simple, and adoring, glanced appealingly with bright eyes at the man who for her epitomized the majesty and perfections of his sex.
'He will be Henry Knight,' the father persisted, rather coldly.
But Mrs. Knight shook her head.
Then Aunt Annie came into the room, pushing Tom before her. Tom was magnificently uncomfortable in his best clothes.
'What's the matter, Sue?' Aunt Annie demanded, as soon as she had noticed her sister's face.
And in a moment, in the fraction of a second, and solely by reason of Aunt Annie's question, the situation became serious. It jumped up, as domestic situations sometimes do, suddenly to the temperature at which thunderstorms are probable. It grew close, heavy, and perilous.
Mrs. Knight
