Then I and the Wife left 'em and went round to another part o' the deck and run into squalls of all nationalities. Their mothers had made a big mistake in bringin' 'em, because you could tell from their faces and hands that they didn't have no use for water.
"They all look just alike," says the Missus. "I don't see how the different mothers can tell which is their baby."
"It's fifty-fifty," I says. "The babies don't look no more alike than the mothers. The mothers is all named Jennie, and all perfect cubes and fond of apples, and ought to go to a dentist. Besides," I says, "suppose they did get mixed up and swap kids, none o' the parties concerned would have reasons to gloat. And the babies certainly couldn't look no more miserable under different auspices than they do now."
We walked all round the deck, threadin' our way among the banana peelin's, and lookin' our shipmates over.
"Pick out somebody you think you'd like to meet," I told the Wife, "and I'll see if I can arrange it."
"Thanks," she says; "but I'll try and not get lonesome, with my husband and my sister and my sister's beau along."
"It's nice for you to say it," says I; "but you want to remember that we're leavin' Bess and Bishop to themself, and that leaves you and I to ourself, and they ain't no two people in the world that can spend two days alone together without gettin' bored stiff. Besides, you don't want to never overlook a chance to meet high-class people."
"When I get desperately anxious to meet high-class people," she says, "I'll be sure and pick out the Saturday afternoon boat from Chicago to St. Joe."
"You can't judge people by their looks," says I. "You haven't heard 'em talk."
"No; and couldn't understand 'em if I did," she says.