Read Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) Online
Authors: Travelers In Time
"Yes,
we
can't
have
him
here.
We
really
can't,
you
know."
"I'm
glad
of
it,"
whined
the
old
man.
"This
is
a
fine
place
to
keep a
youngster
of
quiet
tastes.
With
all
this
yelling
and
howling,
I haven't
been
able
to
get
a
wink
of
sleep.
I
asked
for
something
to eat"—here
his
voice
rose
to
a
shrill
note
of
protest—"and
they
brought me
a
bottle
of
milk!"
Mr.
Button
sank
down
upon
a
chair
near
his
son
and
concealed his
face
in
his
hands.
"My
heavens!"
he
murmured,
in
an
ecstasy
of horror.
"What
will
people
say?
What
must
I
do?"
"You'll
have
to
take
him
home,"
insisted
the
nurse—"immediately!"
A
grotesque
picture
formed
itself
with
dreadful
clarity
before the
eyes
of
the
tortured
man—a
picture
of
himself
walking
through
the crowded
streets
of
the
city
with
this
appalling
apparition
stalking by
his
side.
"I
can't.
I
can't,"
he
moaned.
People
would
stop
to
speak
to
him,
and
what
was
he
going
to
say? He
would
have
to
introduce
this—this
septuagenarian:
"This
is
my son,
born
early
this
morning."
And
then
the
old
man
would
gather his
blanket
around
him
and
they
would
plod
on,
past
the
bustling stores,
the
slave
market—for
a
dark
instant
Mr.
Button
wished passionately
that
his
son
was
black—past
the
luxurious
houses
of
the residential
district,
past
the
home
for
the
aged.
.
.
.
"Come!
Pull
yourself
together,"
commanded
the
nurse.
"See
here,"
the
old
man
announced
suddenly,
"if
you
think
I'm going
to
walk
home
in
this
blanket,
you're
entirely
mistaken."
"Babies
always
have
blankets."
With
a
malicious
crackle
the
old
man
held
up
a
small
white swaddling
garment.
"Look!"
he
quavered.
"This
is
what
they
had ready
for
me."
"Babies
always
wear
those,"
said
the
nurse
primly.
"Well,"
said
the
old
man,
"this
baby's
not
going
to
wear
anything in
about
two
minutes.
This
blanket
itches.
They
might
at
least have
given
me
a
sheet."
"Keep
it
on!
Keep
it
on!"
said
Mr.
Button
hurriedly.
He
turned to
the
nurse.
"What'll
I
do?"
"Go
downtown
and
buy
your
son
some
clothes."
Mr.
Button's
son's
voice
followed
him
down
into
the
hall:
"And a
cane,
father.
I
want
to
have
a
cane."
Mr.
Button
banged
the
outer
door
savagely.
.
.
.
"Good
morning,"
Mr.
Button
said,
nervously,
to
the
clerk
in the
Chesapeake
Dry
Goods
Company.
"I
want
to
buy
some
clothes for
my
child."
"How
old
is
your
child,
sir?"
"About
six
hours,"
answered
Mr.
Button,
without
due
consideration.
"Babies'
supply
department
in
the
rear."
"Why,
I
don't
think—I'm
not
sure
that's
what
I
want.
It's—he's an
unusually
large-size
child.
Exceptionally—ah—large." "They
have
the
largest
child's
sizes."