"I'm going upstairs to take a look at it," she announced gloomily.
I thanked Providence that Frieda was on guard and felt that I had no cause for worry. The landlady, after all, is undeniably a woman and I believe she is the erstwhile mother of several. Her asperity must surely be smoothed down by the sight of the baby's face.
As I put my hand upon the door, the old lady appeared.
"How is that baby?" she shouted, putting a hard-rubber contrivance to her ear.
"Doing splendidly and endowed with all the virtues," I clamored in the instrument.
"I'd give him sugared water for it," she responded severely.
I rushed out. Dr. Porter had strictly forbidden the stuff, calling it a fount of potential colic. I must say that I felt a sneaking sympathy with the old lady's view. Why refuse a bit of sweetness to a tiny infant, perhaps destined to taste little of it in afterlife? But, fortunately, the realization of my ineptitude came uppermost. That silly, romantic tendency of mine was leading me to think more of future privations than immediate pains in a diminutive stomach. I wondered whether I should ever become a practical member of society. The doctor's orders must and shall be obeyed, or my name is not David Cole!