"Much good she got out o' that," retorted the landlady. "Yes, yes, my syrup. I'll give you something."
"If you can stop her yowling, I'll thank you."
With a contemptuous look at the father, the hostess withdrew.
Then the sailor planted his elbows on the table, drank a long draught of beer, and said, sententiously, "It's an institootion is wimin."
"Woman is the joy of our lives," said a lanky, dark-haired man at the table.
"'Tain't exactly that," answered the sailor, now first observing that there were other men in the room. "'Tis that there's things for everything—there's the capstan for hawlin' up the anchor, and there's the woman for nussin'. They was ordained to it—not men—never, no—not men. Look at my hand." The sailor extended his arm across the table. "It's shakin' like a guitar-string when a nigger's playing—and all along of that kid's yawls. Wimin likes it."
"It's their moosic," said the lanky man.
Then in rushed the landlady with flashing eyes, and holding out both palms before her said, "The child's mouth be that purple or blue—it's fits."
"It's blackberries," answered the seaman. "They was nice and ripe, and plenty of them."
"Blackberries!" almost shrieked the hostess, "and the child not six weeks old! You've killed her! It's upset her blessed little inside."