At the close of the infantile banquet, the mothers returned their offspring to the line of cots, where, protected by mosquito netting, they straightway relapsed into slumber.
Kelly, who had returned alone from the depths of the woods into which he had departed with the dripping Mr. Jones, was greatly interested, and addressed Miss Knight. “Watch those kids pound their ears! They sure eat sleep as soon as they hit the hay.”
The nurse looked at the bookkeeper inquiringly. “What are you? Wop, Guiney, Polock or Sheeny?”
“Why?”
“You must hate the English language. I thought that you must be foreign.”
His eyes were dancing when he looked at her and said, “My name is Kelly, Miss Knight.”
“That explains it,” she laughed.
The bachelor farmer who owned the grove watched the pleasant scene from a seat upon the well curb. Resting upon the damp planking, he philosophically sucked upon a black pipe, and gave ear to the prevalent wisdom on baby feeding. He modified this, no doubt, in his own mind, in the light of his own experience as a successful stock feeder.
With that social spirit always noticeable in his character, Ike joined the agriculturist and entered into casual conversation. “Dis is er fine grove you got yere, Misto Elgin.”
“It’s by long odds the best grove on the river.”