'I knew you'd say so, my love,' said little Kitterbell, who, while he appeared to be gazing on the opposite houses, was looking at his wife with a most affectionate air: 'Bless you!' The last two words were accompanied with a simper, and a squeeze of the hand, which stirred up all Uncle Dumps's bile.
'Jane, tell nurse to bring down baby,' said Mrs. Kitterbell, addressing the servant. Mrs. Kitterbell was a tall, thin young lady, with very light hair, and a particularly white face - one of those young women who almost invariably, though one hardly knows why, recall to one's mind the idea of a cold fillet of veal. Out went the servant, and in came the nurse, with a remarkably small parcel in her arms, packed up in a blue mantle trimmed with white fur. - This was the baby.
'Now, uncle,' said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the mantle which covered the infant's face, with an air of great triumph, 'WHO do you think he's like?'
'He! he! Yes, who?' said Mrs. K., putting her arm through her husband's, and looking up into Dumps's face with an expression of as much interest as she was capable of displaying.
'Good God, how small he is!' cried the amiable uncle, starting back with well-feigned surprise; 'REMARKABLY small indeed.'
'Do you think so?' inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed.
'He's a monster to what he was - ain't he, nurse?'
'He's a dear,' said the nurse, squeezing the child, and evading the question - not because she scrupled to disguise the fact, but because she couldn't afford to throw away the chance of Dumps's half-crown.
'Well, but who is he like?' inquired little Kitterbell.
Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at the moment of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents.
'I really don't know WHO he's like,' he answered, very well knowing the reply expected of him.
'Don't you think he's like ME?' inquired his nephew with a knowing air.
'Oh, DECIDEDLY not!' returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be misunderstood. 'Decidedly not like you. - Oh, certainly not.'
'Like Jemima?' asked Kitterbell, faintly.
'Oh, dear no; not in the least. I'm no judge, of course, in such cases; but I really think he's more like one of those little carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone!' The nurse stooped down over the child, and with great difficulty prevented an explosion of mirth. Pa and ma looked almost as miserable as their amiable uncle.
'Well!' said the disappointed little father, 'you'll be better able to tell what he's like by-and-by. You shall see him this evening with his mantle off.'
'Thank you,' said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful.
'Now, my love,' said Kitterbell to his wife, 'it's time we were off. We're to meet the other godfather and the godmother at the church, uncle, - Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from over the way - uncommonly nice people. My love, are you well wrapped up?'
'Yes, dear.'
'Are you sure you won't have another shawl?' inquired the anxious husband.
'No, sweet,' returned the charming mother, accepting Dumps's proffered arm; and the little party entered the hackney-coach that was to take them to the church; Dumps amusing Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating largely on the danger of measles, thrush, teeth-cutting, and other interesting diseases to which children are subject.
The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) passed off without anything particular occurring. The clergyman had to dine some distance from town, and had two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to perform in something less than an hour. The godfathers and godmother, therefore, promised to renounce the devil and all his works - 'and all that sort of thing' - as little Kitterbell said - 'in less than no time;' and with the exception of Dumps nearly letting the child fall into the font when he handed it to the clergyman, the whole affair went off in the usual business-like and matter-of-course manner, and Dumps re-entered the Bank-gates at two o'clock with a heavy heart, and the painful conviction that he was regularly booked for an evening party.
Evening came - and so did Dumps's pumps, black silk stockings, and white cravat which he had ordered to be forwarded, per boy, from Pentonville. The depressed godfather dressed himself at a friend's counting-house, from whence, with his spirits fifty degrees below proof, he sallied forth - as the weather had cleared up, and the evening was tolerably fine - to walk to Great Russell-street.
Slowly he paced up Cheapside, Newgate-street, down Snow-hill, and up Holborn ditto, looking as grim as the figure-head of a man-of-war, and finding out fresh causes of misery at every step. As he was crossing the corner of Hatton-garden, a man apparently intoxicated, rushed against him, and would have knocked him down, had he not been providentially caught by a very genteel young man, who happened to be close to him at the time. The shock so disarranged Dumps's nerves, as well as his dress, that he could hardly stand. The gentleman took his arm, and in the kindest manner walked with him as far as Furnival's Inn. Dumps, for about the first time in his life, felt grateful and polite; and he and the gentlemanly-looking young man parted with mutual expressions of good will.
'There are at least some well-disposed men in the world,' ruminated the misanthropical Dumps, as he proceeded towards his destination.
Rat - tat - ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat - knocked a hackney-coachman at Kitterbell's door, in imitation of a gentleman's servant, just as Dumps reached it; and out came an old lady in a large toque, and an old gentleman in a blue coat, and three female copies of the old lady in pink dresses, and shoes to match.
