“What do you reckon I ought to have asked him—if he wanted any babies?”
“Why speak of them at all? We could ’a’ sneaked in and then came away without ’em, Magpie.”
“Yeah? You never have, Ike. You usually add instead of subtract; so I’m making a few inquiries before I take a chance. Sabe?”
We pilgrims along for a while sort of aimless-like.
“Where had we ought to go now?” wonders Magpie.
“——!” says I.
“Brilliant thought,” agrees Magpie. “They say that all babies are angels; so so you’d be safe—that’s a cinch.”
“They don’t wear yaller boots there; so that would help some,” says I.
Under ordinary circumstances I reckon we would have argued the point; but the triplets start a concert, and we decides to pilgrim on. The rain still visits the earth, and, if you think it’s any cinch trying to walk in the dark with rain in your eyes and a squalling baby on each arm, you’re all wrong.
Pretty soon Magpie stops.