But he did not reply, and Bud gave an impatient snort, tiptoed over and picked up the discarded clothes of Lovin Child, that held still a faint odor of wood smoke and rancid grease, and, removing his shoes that he might move silently, went to work.
He washed Lovin Child's clothes, even to the red sweater suit and the fuzzy red "bunny" cap.

He rigged a line before the fireplace--on his side of the dead line, to be sure--hung the little garments upon it and sat up to watch the fire while they dried.
While he rubbed and rinsed and wrung and hung to dry, he had planned the details of taking the baby to Alpine and placing it in good hands there until its parents could be found.

It was stolen, he had no doubt at all.

He could picture quite plainly the agony of the parents, and common humanity imposed upon him the duty of shortening their misery as much as possible.

But one day of the baby's presence he had taken, with the excuse that it needed immediate warmth and wholesome food.