It really was a joy to see the dear old _Skipping Goone_ once more. Some of the salutations of affection were perhaps just touched with satire; but upon the whole the troupers had settled into a state of romantic enthusiasm over this novel style of beating about the world. Even Captain Bearman, though he could scarcely be termed a popular favourite, was made the recipient of cherry smiles and waves and nods. The _Skipping Goone_’s master had voyaged to New Zealand and back twice with mixed cargoes. Now they were off to New Guinea (merely a cargo call); and then would come Manila.
Lili’s baby was the center of an enormous manifestation of interest. Xenophon Curry was simply wild, and wanted to do all sorts of reckless things with it from the very first. Indeed, the impresario took such a violent and paternal interest in the youngster that an outsider suddenly coming upon a characteristic tableau would decide at once that the man with the gay rings and the black toupee must be the baby’s father—or at the very least its grandfather. One would scarcely think, at first glance, of connecting Jerome with any phase of immediate ownership. It only showed in his eyes. If he took the baby up in his arms (which wasn’t very often) he held it so awkwardly as to make every one laugh.
The tiny boy became the company mascot. “They say a little baby often brings good luck,” observed the superstitious impresario, his honest black eyes very shiny and serious.
And naturally, if the baby was to be the company mascot, everybody in the company wanted to have a hand in the baby’s affairs. All the women who knew how to handle a needle at all began sewing every conceivable article of wardrobe which could possibly fit an infant’s needs. No mother was ever before so favoured!
Of course some of the garments turned out to be a little queer, because opera singers aren’t necessarily authorities on baby’s clothes. But a great deal of genuine affection and good will was sewed into them—even the queerest.
The mascot was petted and pampered like a poodle. Its host of admirers took turns holding it and walking with it and talking baby-talk to it. In short, the mascot was treated like a little king.
Naturally the parents were very proud. As for Lili, she could never get over this most prodigious novelty. “I just can’t believe it’s mine!” she would exclaim. Jerome felt much the same way; yet when he voiced the sentiment, Lili, remembering that wretched little soldier in Honolulu, would always look vaguely guilty. How did she know, after all, whether the baby _did_ belong to Jerome too?