Official. Er hat Typhus.
Mother [shaking her head]. Nein, nein, nein!
American [looking through his glasses]. Guess she's kind of right! I judge the typhus is where the baby's slobbered on the shawl, and it's come off on him. [The Dutch Youth laughs.]
Official [turning on him furiously]. Er hat Typhus.
American. Now, that's where you slop over. Come right here. [The Official mounts, and looks through the glasses.]
American [to the Little Man]. Skin out the baby's leg. If we don't locate spots on that, it'll be good enough for me. [The Little Man fumbles out the Baby's little white foot.]
Mother. Mei' Bubi! [She tries to break away.]
American. White as a banana. [To the Official—affably.] Guess you've made kind of a fool of us with your old typhus.
Official. Lass die Frau! [The Policeman lets her go, and she rushes to her Baby.]
Mother. Mei' Bubi! [The Baby, exchanging the warmth of the Little Man for the momentary chill of its Mother, wails.]