you'll be a good winner. They generally go together." She bent down and gave him a kiss, which for Mrs. Plumberry was an unusual display of emotion. He had a knack of making his way with people, especially people who could be useful to him.
It seemed a freak of Nature that, born of a narrow-chested father and a flat-breasted, small-hipped mother, he should be so strong and healthy. He never cried when he couldn't get his own way—and he wanted his own way in all things and wanted it quickly—but would howl at the top of his voice. In the day-time it was possible to appease him swiftly; and then he would gurgle and laugh and put out his little hands to pat any cheek that might be near. But at night-time it was not so easy to keep pace with him. His father would mutter sleepy curses. How could he do his day's work if he was to be kept awake night after night? The others had merely whimpered. A man could sleep through it.
"The others" had been two girls. The first one had died when three years old, and the second had lived only a few months.
"It's because he's strong," explained the mother. "It does his lungs good."
"And what about my weak heart?" the man
