"Well, it hasn't stopped his growth, anyhow," said Redwood heartlessly.
"I _knew_," said Mrs. Redwood, and clenched her pocket-handkerchief ball fashion in one hand. She looked at him with a sudden change to severity. "What have you done to our child, Dandy?"
"What's wrong with him?"
"He's so big. He's a monster."
"Nonsense. He's as straight and clean a baby as ever a woman had. What's wrong with him?"
"Look at his size."
"That's all right. Look at the puny little brutes about us! He's the finest baby--"
"He's _too_ fine," said Mrs. Redwood.
"It won't go on," said Redwood reassuringly; "it's just a start he's taken."
But he knew perfectly well it would go on. And it did. By the time this baby was twelve months old he tottered just one inch under five feet high and scaled eight stone three; he was as big in fact as a St. Peter's _in Vaticano_ cherub, and his affectionate clutch at the hair and features of visitors became the talk of West Kensington. They had an invalid's chair to carry him up and down to his nursery, and his special nurse, a muscular young person just out of training, used to take him for his airings in a Panhard 8 h.p. hill-climbing perambulator specially made to meet his requirement? It was lucky in every way that Redwood had his expert witness connection in addition to his professorship.
When one got over the shock of little Redwood's enormous size, he was, I am told by pe
