Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (264 page)

"Hurry!"
he
cried
hoarsely,
"I
can't
stand
this!" "Come
this
way,
then,
Mr.
Button."

He
dragged
himself
after
her.
At
the
end
of
a
long
hall
they reached
a
room
from
which
proceeded
a
variety
of
howls—indeed, a
room
which,
in
later
parlance,
would
have
been
known
as
the
"crying-room."
They
entered.
Ranged
around
the
walls
were
half
a dozen
white-enameled
rolling
cribs,
each
with
a
tag
tied
at
the
head.

"Well,"
gasped
Mr.
Button,
"which
is
mine?"

"There!"
said
the
nurse.

Mr.
Button's
eyes
followed
her
pointing
finger,
and
this
is
what he
saw.
Wrapped
in
a
voluminous
white
blanket,
and
partially crammed
into
one
of
the
cribs,
there
sat
an
old
man
apparently about
seventy
years
of
age.
His
sparse
hair
was
almost
white,
and from
his
chin
dripped
a
long
smoke-colored
beard,
which
waved absurdly
back
and
forth,
fanned
by
the
breeze
coming
in
at
the window.
He
looked
up
at
Mr.
Button
with
dim,
faded
eyes
in
which lurked
a
puzzled
question.

"Am
I
mad?"
thundered
Mr.
Button,
his
terror
resolving
into rage.
"Is
this
some
ghastly
hospital
joke?"

"It
doesn't
seem
like
a
joke
to
us,"
replied
the
nurse
severely. "And
I
don't
know
whether
you're
mad
or
not—but
that
is
most certainly
your
child."

The
cool
perspiration
redoubled
on
Mr.
Button's
forehead.
He closed
his
eyes,
and
then,
opening
them,
looked
again.
There
was no
mistake—he
was
gazing
at
a
man
of
threescore
and
ten—a
baby of
threescore
and
ten,
a
baby
whose
feet
hung
over
the
sides
of
the crib
in
which
it
was
reposing.

The
old
man
looked
placidly
from
one
to
the
other
for
a
moment, and
then
suddenly
spoke
in
a
cracked
and
ancient
voice.
"Are
you my
father?"
he
demanded.

Mr.
Button
and
the
nurse
started
violently.

"Because
if
you
are,"
went
on
the
old
man
querulously,
"I
wish you'd
get
me
out
of
this
place—or,
at
least,
get
them
to
put
a
comfortable
rocker
in
here."

"Where
in
God's
name
did
you
come
from?
Who
are
you?"
burst out
Mr.
Button
frantically.

"I
can't
tell
you
exactly
who
I
am,"
replied
the
querulous
whine, "because
I've
only
been
bom
a
few
hours—but
my
last
name
is certainly
Button."

"You
lie!
You're
an
impostor!"

The
old
man
turned
wearily
to
the
nurse.
"Nice
way
to
welcome a
newborn
child,"
he
complained
in
a
weak
voice.
"Tell
him
he's wrong,
why
don't
you?"

"You're
wrong,
Mr.
Button,"
said
the
nurse
severely.
"This
is
your child,
and
you'll
have
to
make
the
best
of
it.
We're
going
to
ask
you to
take
him
home
with
you
as
soon
as
possible—some
time
today."

"Home?"
repeated
Mr.
Button
incredulously.