He was gazing gravely over the round bald head, and his face wore a funereal expression which contrasted ludicrously with the clucking sounds he was making to the attentive and interested baby.

When Patty joined him he put the child back into the carriage, carefully tucking the crocheted robe about the tiny shoulders.

"I kind of thought the little one might like a chance to get out of that buggy," he observed, while he straightened himself briskly, and adjusted his tie.
"She must be very ill," said the girl, as they went out of the gate and turned down the street.
"A sure thing," replied Gershom concisely.

Then he whistled sharply, and added, "Rotten, that's what I call it." "She said she'd never had a chance," remarked Patty thoughtfully, "I wonder what she meant." The funereal expression spread like a pall over Gershom's features, but his intermittent whistle sounded as sprightly as ever.

"Well, how many folks in this world have ever had what you might call a decent chance ?" he asked.
"I don't know.