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before we tell the police. They always have a clue directly they hear about the finding of the body. And besides, we might as well let Alice be in anything there is going. And besides, we haven't had our dinners yet."
This argument of Oswald's was so strong and powerful—his arguments are often that, as I dare say you have noticed—that the others agreed. It was Oswald, too, who showed his artless brothers why they had much better not take the deserted perambulator home with them.
"The dead body, or whatever the clew is, is always left exactly as it is found," he said, "till the police have seen it, and the coroner, and the inquest, and the doctor, and the sorrowing relations. Besides, suppose some one saw us with the beastly thing, and thought we had stolen it; then they would say, 'What have you done with the Baby?' and then where should we be?"
Oswald's brothers could not answer this question, but once more Oswald's native eloquence and far-seeing discerningness conquered.
"Anyway," Dicky said, "let's shove the derelict a little further under cover."
So we did.
Then we went on home. Dinner was ready and so were Alice and Daisy, but Dora was not there.
"She's got a—well, she's not coming to dinner anyway," Alice said when we asked. "She can tell you herself afterwards what it is she's got."
Oswald thought it was headache, or pain in the temper, or in the pinafore, so he said no more, but as soon as Mrs. Pettigrew had helped us and left the room he began the thrilling tale of the forsaken perambulator. He told it with the greatest thrillingness any one could have, but Daisy and Alice seemed almost unmoved. Alice said:
"Yes, very strange," and things like that, but both the girls seemed to be thinking of something else. They kept looking at each other and trying not to laugh, so Oswald saw they had got some silly secret, and he said:
"Oh, all right! I don't care about telling you. I only thought you'd like to be in it. It's going to be a real big thing, with policemen in it, and perhaps a judge."
"In what?" H. O. said; "the perambulator?"
Daisy choked and then tried to drink, and spluttered and got purple, and had to be thumped on the back. But Oswald was not appeased. When Alice said, "Do go on, Oswald. I'm sure we all like it very much," he said:
"Oh no, thank you," very politely. "As it happens," he went on, "I'd just as soon go through with this thing without having any girls in it."
"In the perambulator?" said H. O. again.
"It's a man's job," Oswald went on, without taking any notice of H. O.
"Do you really think so," said Alice, "when there's a baby in it?"
"But there isn't," said H. O., "if you mean in the perambulator."
"Blow you and your perambulator," said Oswald, with gloomy forbearance.
Alice kicked Oswald under the table and said:
"Don't be waxy, Oswald. Really and truly Daisy and I have got a secret, only it's Dora's secret, and she wants to tell you herself. If it was mine or Daisy's we'd tell you this minute, wouldn't we, Mouse?"
"This very second," said the White Mouse.
And Oswald consented to take their apologies.
Then the pudding came in, and no more was said except asking for things to be passed—sugar and water, and bread and things.
Then, when the pudding was all gone, Alice said:
"Come on."
And we came on. We did not want to be disagreeable, though really we were keen on being detectives and sifting that perambulator to the very dregs. But boys have to try to take an interest in their sisters' secrets, however silly. This is part of being a good brother.
Alice led us across the field where the sheep once fell into the brook, and across the brook by the plank. At the other end of the next field there was a sort of wooden house on wheels, that the shepherd sleeps in at the time of year when lambs are being born, so that he can see that they are not stolen by gypsies before the owners have counted them.
To this hut Alice now led her kind brothers and Daisy's kind brother.
"Dora is inside," she said, "with the Secret. We were afraid to have it in the house in case it made a noise."
The next moment the Secret was a secret no longer, for we all beheld Dora, sitting on a sack on the floor of the hut, with the Secret in her lap.
It was the High-born Babe!
Oswald was so overcome that he sat down suddenly, just like Betsy Trotwood did in David Copperfield, which just shows what a true author Dickens is.
"You've done it this time," he said. "I suppose you know you're a baby-stealer?"
"I'm not," Dora said. "I've adopted him."
"Then it was you," Dicky said, "who scuttled the perambulator in the wood?"
"Yes," Alice said; "we couldn't get it over the stile unless Dora put down the Baby, and we were afraid of the nettles for his legs. His name is to be Lord Edward."
"But, Dora—really, don't you think—"
"If you'd been there you'd have done the same," said Dora, firmly. "The gypsies had gone. Of course something had frightened them, and they fled from justice. And the little darling was awake and held out his arms to me. No, he hasn't cried a bit, and I know all about babies; I've often nursed Mrs. Simpkins's daughter's baby when she brings it up on Sundays. They have bread and milk to eat. You take him, Alice, and I'll go and get some bread and milk for him."
Alice took the noble brat. It was horribly lively, and squirmed about in her arms, and wanted to crawl on the floor. She could only keep it quiet by saying things to it a boy would be ashamed even to think of saying, such as "Goo goo," and "Did ums was," and "Ickle ducksums then."
When Alice used these expressions the Baby laughed and chuckled and replied:
"Daddadda," "Bababa," or "Glueglue."
But if Alice stopped her remarks for an instant the thing screwed its face up as if it was going to cry, but she never gave it time to begin.
It was a rummy little animal.
Then Dora came back with the bread and milk, and they fed the noble infant. It was greedy and slobbery, but all three girls seemed unable to keep their eyes and hands off it. They looked at it exactly as if it was pretty.
We boys stayed watching them. There was no amusement left for us now, for Oswald saw that Dora's Secret knocked the bottom out of the perambulator.
When the infant aristocrat had eaten a hearty meal it sat on Alice's lap and played with the amber heart she wears that Albert's uncle brought her from Hastings after the business of the bad sixpence and the nobleness of Oswald.
"Now," said Dora, "this is a council, so I want to be business-like. The Duckums Darling has been stolen away; its wicked stealers have deserted the Precious. We've got it. Perhaps its ancestral halls are miles and miles away. I vote we keep the little Lovey Duck till it's advertised for."
"If Albert's uncle lets you," said Dicky, darkly.
"Oh, don't say 'you' like that," Dora said; "I want it to be all of our baby. It will have five fathers and three mothers, and a grandfather and a great Albert's uncle, and a great grand-uncle. I'm sure Albert's uncle will let us keep it—at any rate till it's advertised for."
"And suppose it never is," Noël said.
"Then so much the better," said Dora, "the little Duckywux."
She began kissing the baby again. Oswald, ever thoughtful, said:
"Well, what about your dinner?"
"Bother dinner!" Dora said—so like a girl. "Will you all agree to be his fathers and mothers?"
"Anything for a quiet