The Loom of Destiny
was both wrong and inconsistent, and a weakness to be overcome, in some way, and heroically lived down. Babies were for women folks to bother about, and were meant mostly for boys to kick. But the loaded die had ordained that Timmie, the man of blood, should, in truth, have the heart of a girl, and that having such, he should lead for all time a double life.
The same hand that had knocked out Dinney Crockett one day might be discovered the next holding, with great care and tenderness, a little oval-shaped bottle from which a hungry infant could be seen feeding. Or at night the Shanghai Sharkey might be found patiently rocking an uncouth looking little cradle, and humming a slumber croon of his own invention to the Baby. The cradle in question, Timmie himself had made of a sugar barrel and a stolen fence-board. But the worst of it all was, that to do such, was the joy of Timmie's life.
Day after day the Baby's mother lay on her bed, counting the figures on the dirty wall-paper, and nervously clutching at the
70
