“Oh! to take tea long of you?” Kit questioned, with a dry laugh.
“Yes, why not?” demanded the crone.
“Oh, nothing. Only I was wondering what stood for tea, and what on earth it was made in and drunk out of. That’s all.”
The ragpicker would have liked to strangle the young woman then and there, but she dared not even quarrel with her, so she answered, with a forced laugh:
“Oh, yer will have your jokes, Kit. Well, to be sure the tea were only a bottle of ginger beer, drunk outen the bottle, and a bun eat outen the hand. I forgive yer yer little joke, Kit, my lass. But I haven’t got time to stop now. I must take the child home.”
Kit laughed, replaced the pipe in her mouth, and moved aside.
The ragpicker passed out to the alley with Owlet in her arms, the child’s head over the woman’s shoulder.
The crone would have been made anxious by the child’s long swoon, but that she felt the gentle motion of the little one’s lungs against her own breast.
She walked down to the end of the alley, and turned the corner into a crowded street leading down to the East River.
The fresh night breeze from the sea began to revive the fainting child, who moved and sighed.