“How long does it take a kid to starve to death, Harp?”
“I dunno. Prob’ly a couple of hours, at least. That little jigger won’t never live to starve to death, Brick.”
“Why not?”
“Why, he’ll bust his windpipe squallin’ that-a-way. Didja ever hear such wheezy yelps? Mebbe it’s got the croup.”
“It has sure got somethin,” declared Brick. “They ought to call that kid A. S. Mostano.”
“Why the A. S., Brick?”
“Almighty Squawk. Whoo-ee, listen to him yowl!”
The baby was giving a good imitation of a discordant accordion now; every breath a yelp. Brick got to his feet and started toward the bunk, intending to do everything within his power to soothe the child, but stopped midway of the room.
Someone was knocking gently on the front door. Brick and Harp exchanged glances of wonderment. Brick stepped over beside the door and said—
“Who’s there?”