"I wouldn't pay for it," said the sailor.
"'Cos why?" asked the woman, planting herself arms akimbo, in front of the wayfarer.
"'Cos it 'ud capsize the ale," he answered.
"Very well, ain't babbies got no in'ards to capsize?" asked the landlady, defiantly. "And chucked in among the pison for killing them dratted flies, too!"
"Never mind about the kid," said the man.
"I do mind about the child," retorted the woman; "look at him there—the innocent—all in the nasty slops. What'll the mother say to the mess and crumple you've made of the clothes?"
The landlady took the infant from the table, on one arm, and proceeded to the bar to draw the beer.
Presently she returned, kissing the child and addressing it in terms of affection. She thrust the pewter full of foaming ale on the table towards the customer, with resentfulness in her action.
"He's a stomachy (sturdy) young chap," she said, patting the babe with the now disengaged hand.
"He ain't a he at all," retorted the man. "He's a she."