r," I told myself. "No, Frieda
wouldn't do the picture justice. She would seek to improve on Nature's
handiwork; she would etherealize it, make it so dainty that it would
become poetry instead of the beautiful plain language the universal
mother sometimes speaks. Gordon would paint something that lived and
breathed. He would draw real flesh and blood, recognizing that truth
unadorned is often very splendid."

At this time I bethought myself of the baby's father. The man was over
there, taking his part in the greatest tragedy ever enacted. At this
very moment, perhaps, he was engaged in destroying life and knew nothing
of this little son. I pitied him. Ye Gods! But for the strength and
insolence of some of the mighty ones of this earth he would have been in
this room, and I should have been quietly engaged in consuming poached
eggs. He would have been appeasing the hunger of his eyes and the
longing of his soul with the sight of the picture now before me, in the
solemn happiness that must surely come to a man at such a time. A
feeling of chilliness came over me as I inopportunely remembered an
interview I had some months ago with a fellow called Hawkins. I was in
his office downtown when the telephone rang, and he took down the
receiver.

"A son," he called back. "Good enough! I was afraid it might be another
girl!"

Then he dictated a short letter to his stenographer and calmly picked up
his hat.

"Come along, Cole," he said. "They tell me I have a boy. Let's go out
and have a highball."

Knowing Hawkins as I do, I am certain he would have had the drink
anyway. This new-born offspring of his merely served him as a peg
whereon to hang the responsibility for his tipple. The great and
wonderful news really affected him little.

But why was I thinking of such monsters? The father of this little baby,
I am sure, must be a decent and normal man. He would have come in,
hatless and breathless, and thrown himself upon his knees to worship and
adore. The very first clumsy touch upon the tiny cheek would have sent a
thrill through him, and tears would have welled up in his eyes!

Such were my thoughts when I remembered that, as a delver in fiction, it
was probably becoming my second nature to exaggerate a little. To me,
after all, a recent father was perhaps like the mule whose story had
brought the check. My notions in regard to them were of pure
imagination, and I only knew them as potentially picturesque ingredients