Mr. Quince was an adaptable man, and, regardless of his amazement at the character of his cargo, he rose to the occasion. Boarding his ship, he inspected the rows of infants. “Wisht I’d a knowed these yere kids,” he worried. “I mought a picked up some old trunk checks at the railroad station.”
“What for, Mr. Quince?” asked Virginia.
“Some of these yere kids a lyin’ around careless like is agoin’ to git mixed up and start the allfiredest fight amongst these women folks. Nothin’ makes a woman madder and want to fight quicker than to lose a kid.” Mr. Quince spoke in the tone of one accustomed to hailing the main top in the midst of storm, and his voice carried authoritative anxiety to the ears of every mother.
A scene of confusion ensued. The dire prophecy of the riverman caused each mother to seize her offspring and press it to her breast. The infants, having expressed acceptance of their new surroundings by falling asleep, were disturbed and made known their objections in loud wailings.
“Who stirred up those babies?” Dr. Jackson demanded, angrily.
“He did,” chorused the mothers, indicating the worthy seafaring man. “He said that they would get mixed up.” The hostile eyes of the matrons watched Mr. Quince as if suspicious that he might attempt personally to bring about the fulfillment of his prediction.
“Nonsense,” shouted Dr. Jackson. “You mothers ought to know your own babies by now, and, if you don’t, you certainly know the clothes they have on.”
This assurance had a calming influence and quiet was slowly restored. For a time Dr. Jackson appeared about to reprimand the riverman, but hesitated, probably fearful of again being placed on record.
Mr. Quince perceived the evidences of his personal unpopularity with great coolness. Unabashed, he remarked, “You’re gettin’ all het up a layin’ around here with your kids. There’s nothing to it but a heap of sweating. Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute, please,” begged Virginia. “I think that some one else is coming. Won’t you blow your whistle, Mr. Quince?”