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There is, it seems, an upward limit to the pride of maternity, and this
in the case of Mrs. Redwood was reached when her offspring completed his
sixth month of terrestrial existence, broke down his high-class
bassinet-perambulator, and was brought home, bawling, in the milk-truck.
Young Redwood at that time weighed fifty-nine and a half pounds,
measured forty-eight inches in height, and gripped about sixty pounds.
He was carried upstairs to the nursery by the cook and housemaid. After
that, discovery was only a question of days. One afternoon Redwood came
home from his laboratory to find his unfortunate wife deep in the
fascinating pages of The Mighty Atom, and at the sight of him she put
the book aside and ran violently forward and burst into tears on his
shoulder.
"
Tell me what you have done to him," she wailed. "Tell me what you
have done." Redwood took her hand and led her to the sofa, while he
tried to think of a satisfactory line of defence.
"It's all right, my dear," he said; "it's all right. You're only a
little overwrought. It's that cheap perambulator. I've arranged for a
bath-chair man to come round with something stouter to-morrow--"
Mrs. Redwood looked at him tearfully over the top of her handkerchief.
"A baby in a bath-chair?" she sobbed.
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