‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. It was a boy baby cooing in swaddling clothes, a baby who had just been born to the butcher's servant across the alley, the maid Isobella who trailed behind, beaming. Something happened down there, and probably I'll never know what. So I fear there's little chance of any one getting it. But there was nothing in her bearing that a passer-by would have noted, to tell of the excitement that possessed her. He helped himself to a beer, then a vodka and tonic, then two rum and Cokes. Sheppard, with a laugh that cut the ears of those who listened to it like a razor,—"Do not despair! And who or what shall give me comfort when my son is gone? I have wept till my eyes are dry,—suffered till my heart is broken,—prayed till the voice of prayer is dumb,—and all of no avail. ” The brutality of his first astonishment was evaporating.
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