He reached for the tobacco and papers and had just started to roll the cigaret, when a peculiar noise sent both of them onto the floor, clutching their guns. Swiftly their eyes searched everywhere and came back to each other’s faces.
“What the was that?” whispered Harp.
Brick shook his head. Then it came again—
“Yea-a-a-a.”
Brick squinted at the bunk. There was a curious expression in his eyes, as he turned and looked at Harp. Then he got to his feet and strode across the room to the bunk.
“C’mere,” he whispered to Harp, who went over to him.
Brick threw back the blanket, disclosing a little copper-colored baby about a year old, possibly less. The little one was looking up at them with its round, black eyes. Then it grinned widely and kicked both feet up against the blanket.
The two men looked at each other and laughed foolishly.
“Little son-of-a-gun,” whispered Brick. “Ain’t he a dinger?”
“Why not ‘she’?” grinned Harp.