A nurse was sitting behind a desk in the opaque gloom of the hall. Swallowing his shame, Mr. Button approached her.
Good-morning, she remarked, looking up at him pleasantly.
Good-morning. I I am Mr. Button.
At this a look of utter terror spread itself over girls face. She rose to her feet and seemed about to fly from the hall, restraining herself only with the most apparent difficulty.
I want to see my child, said Mr. Button.
The nurse gave a little scream. Oh of course! she cried hysterically. Upstairs. Right upstairs. Go up!
She pointed the direction, and Mr. Button, bathed in cool perspiration, turned falteringly, and began to mount to the second floor. In the upper hall he addressed another nurse who approached him, basin in hand. Im Mr. Button, he managed to articulate. I want to see my
Clank! The basin clattered to the floor and rolled in the direction of the stairs. Clank! Clank! It began a methodical decent as if sharing in the general terror which this gentleman provoked.
I want to see my child! Mr. Button almost shrieked. He was on the verge of collapse.
Clank! The basin reached the first floor. The nurse regained control of herself, and threw Mr. Button a look of hearty contempt.
All right, Mr. Button, she agreed in a hushed voice. Very well! But if you knew what a state its put us all in this morning! Its perfectly outrageous! The hospital will never have a ghost of a reputation after
Hurry! he cried hoarsely. I cant stand this!
Come this way, then, Mr. Button.
He dragged himself after her. At the end of a long hall they reached a room from which proceeded a variety of howls indeed, a room which, in later parlance, would have been known as the crying-room. They entered.
Ranged around the walls were half a dozen white-enameled rolling cribs, each with a tag tied at the head.
Well, gasped Mr. Button, which is mine?
There! said the nurse.
Mr. Buttons eyes followed her pointing finger, and this is what he saw. Wrapped in a voluminous white blanket, and partly crammed into one of the cribs, there sat an old man apparently about seventy years of age. His sparse hair was almost white, and from his chin dripped a long smoke-coloured beard, which waved absurdly back and forth, fanned by the breeze coming in at the window. He looked up at Mr. Button with dim, faded eyes in which lurked a puzzled question.
Am I mad? thundered Mr. Button, his terror resolving into rage. Is this some ghastly hospital joke?
It doesnt seem like a joke to us, replied the nurse severely. And I dont know whether youre mad or not but that is most certainly your child.
The cool perspiration redoubled on Mr. Buttons forehead. He closed his eyes, and then, opening them, looked again. There was no mistake he was gazing at a man of threescore and ten a baby of threescore and ten, a baby whose feet hung over the sides of the crib in which it was reposing.
The old man looked placidly from one to the other for a moment, and then suddenly spoke in a cracked and ancient voice. Are you my father? he demanded.
Mr. Button and the nurse started violently.
Because if you are, went on the old man querulously, I wish youd get me out of this place or, at least, get them to put a comfortable rocker in here.
Where in Gods name did you come from? Who are you? burst out Mr. Button frantically.
I cant tell you exactly who I am, replied the querulous whine, because Ive only been born a few hours but my last name is certainly Button.
You lie! Youre an impostor!
The old man turned wearily to the nurse. Nice way to welcome a new-born child, he complained in a weak voice. Tell him hes wrong, why dont you?
Youre wrong. Mr. Button, said the nurse severely. This is your child, and youll have to make the best of it. Were going to ask you to take him home with you as soon as possible some time to-day.
Home? repeated Mr. Button incredulously.
Yes, we cant have him here. We really cant, you know?
Im right glad of it, whined the old man. This is a fine place to keep a youngster of quiet tastes. With all this yelling and howling, I havent been able to get a wink of sleep. I asked for something to eat here his voice rose to a shrill note of protest and they brought me a bottle of milk!
Mr. Button sank down upon a chair near his son and concealed his face in his hands. My heavens! he murmured, in an ecstasy of horror. What will people say? What must I do?
Youll have to take him home, insisted the nurse immediately!
A grotesque picture formed itself with dreadful clarity before the eyes of the tortured man a picture of himself walking through the crowded streets of the city with this appalling apparition stalking by his side. I cant. I cant, he moaned.
People would stop to speak to him, and what was he going to say? He would have to introduce this this septuagenarian[69]: This is my son, born early this morning. And then the old man would gather his blanket around him and they would plod on, past the bustling stores, the slave market for a dark instant Mr. Button wished passionately that his son was black past the luxurious houses of the residential district, past the home for the aged.