Barney broke in abruptly. “I’ll bet a million dollars I know more about children than all you cusses put together! There ain’t a one of you knows how many teeth a baby’s got when he’s born.”
The challenge produced a solemn stillness.
“W-e-l-l, I know they don’t git their eyes open for a week,” asserted Moody.
“You’re clear off, first crack,” retorted Barney. “It’s nine days, instead of a week.”
Again the men were awed to silence.
“Yes, that’s right—Barney’s correct,” presently admitted citizen Wooster.
“You old ninnies!” said his daughter Sally, and she turned away to go to the house.
“Well, anyway,” said Slivers, after a brisk bit of widespread conversation with Tuttle, “we’ve got a scheme. Barney wants to match himself against the whole shebang in knowin’ about a kid, and we’re goin’ to fetch a young un to the Hole and leave him prove his claim.”
“Not Sullivan’s?” gasped Barney, suddenly overwhelmed at the prospect of proving his erudition on an infant so tender, with a father so brawny.
“Never mind whose,” replied the teamster. “You sit quiet and look pretty, and we’ll provide the kid.”