cold blood
and under the unsympathetic gaze of Messrs. Snapper and Klick? Suzanne,
it can't be done."

"Oh, nonsense! You've only got to sing _Pop Goes the Weasel_ in a
falsetto voice and make one of those comic faces you do so well, and
he'll gurgle at once. Well, that's settled. We start at half-past ten
to-morrow."

The coming ordeal so preyed upon my mind that I spent a most restless
night, during which, so Suzanne afterwards told me, I announced at
frequent intervals the popping of the weasel. The day dawned with a
steady drizzle of rain, and, after a poor attempt at breakfast, I
scoured the neighbourhood for a taxi. Having at last run one to earth, I
packed the expedition into it--Suzanne, Timothy, Timothy's nurse and
Barbara (who begged so hard to be allowed to "come and see Father make
faces at Baby" that Suzanne weakly consented).

Arrived at our destination, Suzanne bade the driver wait. "We shall
never find another cab to take us home in this downpour," she said, "and
we shan't be kept long."

We were ushered into the studio by a gentleman I now know to have been
Mr. Klick. He aroused my distrust at once by the fact that he did not
wear a velvet coat, and I pointed out this artistic deficiency in a
whisper to Suzanne.

"Never mind," she whispered back; "we needn't buy any if they're not
good."

Timothy, who had by now been put straight by his attendant, was
carefully placed on all-fours on a pile of cushions, which he promptly
proceeded to chew. Mr. Klick, on attempting to correct the pose, was
received with a hymn of hate that compelled him to bury his head hastily
in the camera-cloth, and Suzanne arranged the subject so that some of
his more recognisable features became visible.

"Now then," she said to me, "make him smile."

With a furtive glance at Mr. Klick, who fortunately was still playing
the ostrich, I essayed a well-tried "face" that had almost invariably
evoked a chuckle from Timothy, even when visitors were present. On this
occasion, however, it failed to produce anything more than a woebegone
pucker that foreshadowed something worse. Hastily I switched off into
another expression, but with no better result.

"Go on, Father," encouraged Barbara, who had been taking a breathless
interest in these proceedings; "try your funny voice."

Mr. Klick had emerged from cover and was standing expectantly with his
hand on the cap.

Dear reader, have you ever been called upon to sing _Pop Goes t