"Ahoy the nursery!" says one guy. "Where you bound for?"

"Ask popper," says I. "He's got the tickets."

Woodie kept his face turned and his jaw shut, and if he had any friends
in the crowd I guess they didn't spot him. I'll bet he wa'n't sorry when
Sadie shows up on deck and waves for us to come on.

Mrs. Brinley Cubbs was there, all right. She was a tall, loppy kind of
female, ready to gush over anything. As well as I could size up the
game, she was one of the near-swells, with plenty of gilt but not enough
sense to use it right. Her feelin's were in good workin' order though,
and she was willin' to listen to any program that Sadie had on hand.

"Bring the little dears right aboard," says she, "and we'll have them
home before dark. Why, Sir Hunter, is it really you?"

"I'm not altogether sure," says Woodie, "whether it's I or not," and he
made a dive to get below.

Well, say, that was a yacht and a half, that Dixie Girl! The inside of
her was slicker'n any parlor car you ever saw. While they was gettin' up
steam, and all the way down to the East river, Mrs. Cubbs had the hired
hands luggin' up everything eatable they could find, from chicken salad
to ice-cream, and we all took a hand passin' it out to that Incubator
bunch.

They knew what grub was, yes, yes! There wasn't any holdin' back for an
imitation cop to give the signal. The way they did stow in good things
that they'd probably never dreamed about before was enough to make a man
wish he had John D.'s pile and Jake Riis's heart. I forgot all about
bein' wet, and so did Woodie. To see him jugglin' stacks of loaded
plates you'd think he'd graduated from a ham-and factory. He seemed to
like it, too, and he was wearin' what passes for a grin among the
English aristocracy. By the time we got to the dock at East 34th-st.
there was more solid comfort and stomach-ache in that cabin than it'll
hold again in a thousand years.

Sadie had me go ashore and telephone for two of them big rubber-neck
wagons. That gave us time to get the sleepers woke up and arrange 'em on
the dock. Just as we was gettin' the last of the kids loaded in for
their ride up to the Home, a roundsman shows up with two cops.

"Where do you kids belong?" he sings out.

With that there comes a howl, and the whole bunch yells:

Hot pertater--cold termater--alligater--Rome!
We're the girls from the Incubator Home!

"Caught with the goods!" says he, turnin' to the Cap'n and me. "You're