“No,”

“Where is the baby?”

“In my van.”

“And where is that?”

“Yonder!” and he pointed to a gayly-painted caravan that stood near by. “’e’s asleep now, but if you’d like to take a peep at ’im—­”

“I should,” said I. Whereupon the fellow led me to his van, and, following him up the steps, I entered a place which, though confined, was wonderfully neat and clean, with curtains at the open windows, a rug upon the floor, and an ornamental; brass lamp pendent from the roof.  At the far end was a bed, or rather, berth, curtained with chintz, and upon this bed, his chubby face pillowed upon a dimpled fist, lay a very small man indeed.  And, looking up from him to the very large, bony man, bending over him, I surprised a look upon the hardened face—­a tenderness that seemed very much out of place.

“Nice and fat, ain’t ’e?” said the man, touching the baby’s applelike cheek with a grimy finger.

“Yes.”

“Ah—­and so ’e should be, James!  But ’you should see ’im eat, a alderman’s nothing to Lewis—­I calls ’im Lewis, for ’twere at Lewisham I found ’im, on a Christmas Eve—­snowing it was, but, by James! it didn’t bother ’im—­not a bit.”

“And why did you keep him?—­there was the parish.”

“Parish!” repeated the man bitterly.  “I were brought up by the parish myself—­and a nice job they made o’ me!”

“Don’t you find him a great trouble?”

“Trouble!” exclaimed the man.  “Lewis ain’t no trouble—­not a bit—­never was, and he’s great company when I’m on the move from one town to another larning to talk a’ready.”

“Now,” said I, when we had descended from the van, “I propose to return this purse to the owner, if he is to be found; if not, I shall hand it to the proper authorities.”

“Walker!” exclaimed the man.

“You shall yourself witness the restitution,” said I, unheeding his remark, “after which—­”

“Well!” said he, glancing back toward his caravan, and moistening his lips as I tightened my grip upon his arm, “what about me?”

“You can go—­for Lewis’s sake—­if you will give me your word to live honestly henceforth.”

“You have it, sir—­I swear it—­on the Bible if you like.”

“Then let us seek the owner of this purse.”  So, coming in a while to where the quack doctor was still holding forth—­there, yet seated upon the shaft of the cart, puffing at his great pipe, was the venerable man.  At sight of him the pickpocket stopped and caught my arm.

“Come, master,” said he, “come, you never mean to give up all that good money—­there’s fifty guineas, and more, in that purse!”

“All the more reason to return it,” said I.

“No, don’t—­don’t go a-wasting good money like that—­it’s like throwing it away!” But shaking off the fellow’s importunate hand, I approached, and saluted the venerable man.

“Sir,” said I, “you have had your pocket picked.”