The fact as to Baby's authorship I had, of course, suspected. I perceived, however, that our fellow-passengers did not mind.
The girl did not allow the young man's question to remain unanswered. "Never trouble," she said, "what I call myself. What do you call yeself? A man, I suppose. Funny sort of man, ain't you? More like a ape. More like a crab. Fine 'usband for a person, ain't you? 'Usband, eh?"
An elderly man at my right hand removed his pipe and grinned. The gentleman opposite to him winked; and a woman in the corner giggled rustily. You might have supposed them to be tickled by a sense of the deeper irony which underlay this mother's sarcasm. But, as a matter of fact, the reflections which moved them were not of this character. The elderly man at my right explained his sentiments publicly. "Puts me in mind," he said, "of my fust. 'E were jest sich a skinny one."
And Rickets spoke again. "Why can't you stop the beggar's noise?" he demanded. "Worse nor a waggon-load o' tomcats, that row is."
"What," demanded the girl, "d'you expect me to do? Put a muzzle on 'im? Why don't you take an' stop 'im yeself? 'Andy enough wiv yere tongue, you are. S'pose you show us 'ow to do the business."
"My way o' stoppin' 'im would be easy," said the boy, with a stupid grin. "I should lay a strap acrost 'is back."
His companion reapplied the elbow treatment. "You do!" she squeaked between the digs. "You do, you little ape. Let me see you. On'y let me see you. There'd be a strap 'crost your back blessed soon. Not 'arf, there wouldn't. You baboon, you!"
The girl looked helplessly at nothing, "hushing" the baby upon her breast by means of sudden, horrible, little jerks. Such a pitiful parody of rock-a-bye. She was too young and pale properly to know or understand the business of mothering, which is a difficult business to learn in your spare time, especially when they shut you out for a "quarter" if you are two minutes late at the factory. So that this London mother sucked at a bull's-eye, and yawned, and jerked, while the London baby lay in her arms and moaned.... "I fink it is the beetroot," reiterated the mother presently. "He looks so cold, Sam."
"It's wind," pronounced the boy, bringing forth a mouth-organ and carefully wiping it upon his sleeve. "Give 'im a tap, same's I told you. 'Seaweed,' mates." With which announcement the husband and father proceeded to wring out the melody of that name. We all tapped time with our feet, and the mother sucked her bull's-eye, and the baby moaned.
"He looks so cold," repeated the mother, as the mouth-organ subsided. "Give us 'Cock o' the North,' Sam."