Then the occupant of the perambulator began to weep.
The figure of Samuel Peel, dressed as a Justice of the Peace should be
dressed for the Bench, in a frock-coat and a ceremonious necktie, and
(of course) spats over his spotless boots; the figure of Samuel Peel,
the wrinkled and dry bachelor (who never in his life had held a saucepan
of infant's food over a gas-jet in the middle of the night), this figure
staring horror-struck through spectacles at the loud contents of the
perambulator, soon excited attention in the market-place of Bursley. And
Mr Peel perceived the attention.
He guessed that the babe was Mary's babe, though he was quite incapable
of recognizing it. And he could not imagine what George was doing with
it (and the perambulator) in Bursley, nor why he had vanished so swiftly
into the Tiger, nor why he had not come out again. The whole situation
was in the acutest degree mysterious. It was also in the acutest degree
amazing. Samuel Peel had no facility in baby-talk, so, to tranquillize
Georgie, he attempted soothing strokes or pats on such portions of
Georgie's skin as were exposed. Whereupon Georgie shrieked, and even
dogs stood still and lifted noses inquiringly.
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