Poor Tom couldn't think.
He merely stood there, looking first at the sea, then at the sky, then at the Doctor, his mouth wide open.
His wife broke the silence. "D'ye hear, man? T' Doctor wants to take t' children. I says 'tis the gover'ment should feed 'em here. I wouldn't let no children o' mine go, I wouldn't." Saying which, she held her sickly infant tighter.
The talk to and fro went on for a long time. It didn't get much of anywhere. On the part of the fond parents it consisted largely of what the government ought to do. Grenfell patiently explained that the government was a long way off, and couldn't answer before Christmas if it answered at all.
All this time Father Tom stood there, dumb as a stalled ox, trying to see daylight by which to make up his mind. Evidently his wife was the real man of the family.
"Why doesn't youse say something?" she broke out at last. "Bees you a-goin' to let t' Doctor have youse childer?"
Tom looked more distracted than ever, and it didn't help much when he took off his hat and let cold air blow on his heated brain as he rummaged with his finger in the dense thatch on his head.
Then Tom said: "I suppose he knows."
"Yes," Dr. Grenfell said. "I think you'd better let me have Billy and Jimmy for a while."
There was more talk, and finally the wife gave way. "Well, youse can take Billy, I suppose, if you wants un."