kin git my brains to thinkin’,” Skeeter suggested. “You gib me de
muddlegrubs cuttin’ up like dis! Why don’t you take de chile an’ run
off somewheres?”
“’Twon’t do no good,” Whiffle sobbed. “Shin would foller atter me an’
take little Shinny away!”
“You mought let Shin keep him half de time, an’ you keep him half de
time,” Skeeter proposed.
“Ef Shin ever gits holt of dis boy, he’ll keep him all de time,”
Whiffle wailed.
“Aw, mud!” Skeeter vociferated, staring at the weeping woman. “I never
seed sech a puddle as you make out of yo’se’f. Dry up!”
The conversation ceased for about ten minutes, but the silence was
constantly shattered by the cork-popping sobs of Whiffle.
“Skeeter,” she pleaded finally, “would you wish to he’p me keep my
little boy all fer myse’f? I kin take better keer of him dan Shin.”
“Yes’m, I’s willin’ to he’p,” Skeeter said uncertainly. “You see, I
ain’t never been married an’ I don’t know nothin’ ’bout chillun or
deir mammies. I don’t know jes’ perzackly whut I kin do. It might
be dangersome fer a igernunt nigger like me to butt into mattermony
matters.”
“’Tain’t no danger,” Whiffle replied quickly. “Shin is gwine try to
steal dis chile from me ternight, an’ I wants you to he’p me guard him.”
Skeeter lighted a cigarette and sat puffing at it for a long time. Then
his eyes began to sparkle, and he said with a chuckle:
“I’ll take you up on dat, Whiffle.”
“Whut is you gwine do?” Whiffle asked, her face shining with relief.
“I dopes it out like dis,” Skeeter answered. “A new nigger woman is
visitin’ in dis town, an’ me an her begun to shine up to each yuther
real prompt. She’s got a little boy jes’ de size an’ age an’ color of
dis here brat of your’n.”
“Dat don’t he’p me none,” Whiffle mourned.
“When I talks--you listen!” Skeeter snapped. “Don’t try to bake no
biscuits till I git done mixin’ de dough! All I wants you to do is to
git de repote to Shin Bone private an’ confidential dat you is gwine
out of town fer a little rest an’ dat I will keep yo’ baby till you
gits back. Atter dat, jes’ take yo’ brat an’ go!”
“But ef I takes him wid me, you won’t hab him,” Whiffle whined.
“Oh, my big toe!” Skeeter snarled. “I don’t blame Shin Bone fer
gittin’ a deevo’ce--you ain’t got no sense! Whut I means is dis: I’ll
borrer my lady frien’s little boy to-night. Shin will git de repote dat
I am keepin’ little Shinny. Of co’se, Shin will come to de Hen-Scratch
an’ swipe de chile I’m got an’ run away. When daylight comes, he’ll
discover dat he’s got some yuther nigger’s boy!”
“I sees,” Whiffle whimpered. “But ef Shin come an’ swipes de wrong
baby, whut will yo’ lady frien’ say to you?”
“Nothin’,” Skeeter replied. “She won’t hab no kick-back. Of co’se,
when Shin finds out dat he’s got de wrong pup by de year, he’ll jes’
nachelly fotch him back to his real maw. Nobody don’t want somebody
else’s yearlin’.”
“Dat’s right,” Whiffle muttered. “I’d hate to loant my honey boy fer
dat puppus, but mebbe yo’ lady frien’ is diff’unt. I’ll succulate de
repote of me leavin’ so Shin kin git it.”
“Good-by!” Skeeter grinned.
* * * * *
A few minutes after Whiffle had gone, Skeeter Butts left his business
in charge of his assistant and started toward the home of Mustard
Prophet, where his new friend was visiting. He found her sitting on the
porch, entertaining her little boy.
“Howdy, Happy!” he greeted her. “How’s you an’ de little boy to-day?”
“Us is feelin’ fine,” Happy smiled. “How come you is runnin’ aroun’
when you oughter be keepin’ bar?”
“I come to cornverse you ’bout a little bizzness,” Skeeter answered
promptly.
“Come up an’ set down!” the young woman invited, pushing aside and
making a place for him on the bench she occupied. “Rest yo’ hat, put
yo’ foots on de porch rail, light a cigar, wind yo’ watch--jes’ make
yo’se’f at home.”
“Yes’m,” Skeeter grinned, as he seated himself beside her. “Yo’ name is
shore a good sign of yo’ disposition--bofe is happy. But, Happy, ef yo’
name gimme de lock-jaw eve’y time I pernounced it, it would still taste
awful good to me!”
“You muss hab kissed de coal-oil can befo’ you lef’ de Hen-Scratch,
Skeeter,” Happy responded. “Yo’ nigger tongue is mighty slick!”
Skeeter ignored the remark and looked the woman over with appraising
eyes. She was tall, slim, graceful, dark-skinned, bright-eyed, with
an easy-smiling, good-natured mouth. Her home was in Baton Rouge, her
dress and manner bespoke the city, and Skeeter’s susceptible heart was
deeply affected.
“Dat’s a beautiful chile,” Skeeter remarked fondly, as he gazed at the
little boy who sat on the floor trying to see how close he could poke
his finger toward the business end of a wasp without getting stung.
“Yes, suh, I’s shore proud of my baby,” the woman smiled.
“Would you loant him to me fer a little while to-night, Happy?” Skeeter
asked.
“Whut you wanter do wid him?”
“He’s such a diff’unt-lookin’ kid to all dese here dirty pickaninnies
in dis town dat I flggered it would be a good edgercation fer dese here
home niggers to see him,” Skeeter recited glibly. “Me an’ Sheriff
Flournoy follers up de Nigger Uplift Movement, an’ I don’t know nothin’
dat’ll put good notions in a nigger’s head like gittin’ a look at dis
nice, dean, dressy nigger boy.”
“Ain’t it de trufe!” Happy exclaimed proudly.
“Yes’m,” Skeeter continued. “I figger dat I could take yo’ little boy
to de Hen-Scratch to-night, show him off, brag on him, an’ make dese
home niggers ashamed of deir offsprings--ain’t dat so?”
“Shore is!” Happy replied. “I wisht I could be dar an’ hear you brag
yo’ brags on him.”
“’Tain’t possible,” Skeeter exclaimed quickly. “Womans ain’t be allowed
in de Scratch. But ef yo’ little boy makes a hit, I might could git de
Revun Vinegar Atts to gib a baby show at de Shoofly chu’ch, an’ I’m
shore yo’ little boy would tote off de prize.”
“You kin hab him, Skeeter!” the woman exclaimed exultantly. “You come
fer him to-night atter supper. I’ll hab him all dressed up like a
circus bandwagon. Only I gibs you dis advice right now: don’t grab my
chile by de lef’ arm onless you wants him to sot up a howl. Dat arm is
powerful sore!”
“I’ll lead him by de han’ like a gen’leman,” Skeeter grinned. “Whut is
de name he’s called by?”
“I calls him Ready Rocket--atter his deceasted paw,” Happy told him.
“I’ll come by fer him atter dark, Mrs. Rocket,” Skeeter declared, as he
reached for his hat. “Git him ready.”
As Skeeter walked down the street a new idea came to him.
“Dat woman is gwine dress up dat kid like a Mardi Gras, an’ Shin won’t
swipe him--Shin’ll know dat ain’t his’n. I wonder is Whiffle lef’ town
yit?”
Skeeter hastened to Pap Curtain’s cabin and found that Whiffle had not.
“Whiffle,” he said, “I come mighty nigh fergittin’ a mos’ important
bizzness. I want some of little Shinny’s ole ragged clothes. Ef Shin
comes to steal dat yuther brat to-night, we got to fix him up so Shin
won’t find out de cub ain’t his’n.”
“I got plenty ragged clothes,” Whiffle replied. “I’ll git you a full
suit.”
“When is you leavin’ out fer de hog-camp, Whiffle?” Skeeter asked as
soon as the suit was wrapped in a bundle.
“I’s gittin’ ready to walk right now,” Whiffle told him.
“Dat’s a good idear to walk it,” Skeeter remarked. “You kin take shawt
cut-offs through de woods, an’ ef anybody is passin’ you kin hide in de
grass so dey cain’t see you is got little Shinny wid you.”
“It’s a powerful long walk,” Whiffle complained. “But I guess I’m got
to take it.”
“You kin come back in de mawnin’,” Skeeter assured her, as he rose to
go. “When Shin finds out he’s made a miscue an’ stole de wrong chile,
de Tickfall niggers will buzz him till he leaves town fer good.”
It was sundown when Skeeter got back to the saloon, and he ate his
supper and waited impatiently until the darkness was heavy enough for
him to venture after Happy’s son. At last he slipped to her cabin,
lifted the laughing little fellow upon his shoulders, and carried him
back to the rear room of his saloon.
“Huh,” Skeeter grunted as he turned on the light and surveyed the
boy. “Happy shore has put de paradise rags on Ready Rocket. He looks
like a valumtime. I don’t b’lieve he’ll feel half as comf’able in dem
gyarmints as he will in dese sensible clothes.”
Then for the first time in his life Skeeter began to undress a baby.
His inexperienced hands were as clumsy as if he wore boxing-gloves;
he felt around the garments for buttons and stuck pins in himself;
he unhitched parts of the little fellow’s harness and found to his
surprise that they were connected with other parts of his clothes
which apparently had no way of being detached. The sweat popped out
on Skeeter’s face, his fingers trembled, and his lips were drawn in a
straight, nervous line.
“Gosh!” he sighed. “Dis is de hardest wuck I ever done, an’ I ain’t
done it yit. Dis job ain’t even good started. It would take about
fo’teen womans to undress dis valumtime doll. I bet his maw melted him
in a cookin’ pot an’ poured him into dese clothes.”
He struggled on, jerking and pulling, but accomplishing little. Then he
straightened up and surveyed his task.
“Ef I could button dem clothes on de way dey wus at fust, I’d put
little Shinny’s rags on over ’em,” he announced to himself. Then he
shook his head hopelessly. “’Tain’t no use tryin’ dat. I gotter study
dis problem out an’ git dem bliss rags off!” He turned the boy around
to take a comprehensive survey of the mystery. Then he found a button
in the rear and undid it. The clothes fell off of little Ready Rocket
like the last leaf off of a tree, leaving the limbs bare.
“Dar now!” Skeeter snickered. “Ain’t dat funny! Dis here is a
one-button suit. You press de button an’ lo an’ beholes!”
He looked the tiny black-skinned chunk of humanity over. On Ready’s
left arm he found an ugly scar.
“Looks like a fresh vaccinate mark to me,” he muttered. “I mighty nigh
fergot whut Happy tole me ’bout dat sore arm.”
He brought a bright red stick of candy out of his pocket and placed it
in Ready Rocket’s willing hand.
“Now, sonny,” he whispered. “You suck dat sugar-stick an’ fergit dat I
is changin’ yo’ clothes. I cain’t handle dese city duds, but I knows
how to put on little Shinny’s overalls an’ shirt beca’se I wore dem
kind of drapery my own se’f.”
The little fellow murmured no complaint at the operation except when
Skeeter momentarily separated his hand from his mouth and deprived him
of his sugar-stick. But Skeeter quickly made the proper connection
again, and when the child was dressed in little Shinny’s old clothes,
Skeeter tossed the glad rags into a dark corner, lifted Ready in his
arms, and carried him out on the street.
“Now, sonny,” he said, as he placed Ready on the ground, “us ’ll take a
long, long walk!”
He started straight down the middle of the sandy road, the little boy
trotting beside him sucking his candy. A quarter of a mile had been
covered in this way when Ready Rocket dropped his candy.
“Ah-hah!” Skeeter said, as he picked up the sticky candy, wiped a
little of the sand and dust off it, and stuck it back in Ready’s gaping
mouth. “Dat’s a good sign--you is gittin’ tired an’ sleepy.”
They turned around and started back toward the saloon, Skeeter pressing
the boy to walk as fast as he could. Half a dozen times in the return
walk the little fellow dropped his candy and finally Skeeter grew tired
of Ready’s carelessness. He merely picked up the sticky substance and
helped Ready make connection with his mouth and hand, without taking
the trouble to wipe off the dirt.
“Ef you git de colic eatin’ dat gorm of sugar an’ dirt, I hopes Shin
Bone will hab you to wait on,” Skeeter remarked to his charge. “I ain’t
got no expe’unce wid some yuther nigger’s stomick-ache.”
Within two blocks of the barroom, Ready’s little feet stopped like a
clock with a broken spring. Skeeter dragged him for a few steps by the
arm. Then he lifted the sleeping child, carried him to a ragged quilt
in a corner of the rear room, and laid him down. The child’s tiny hand
still clutched the muddy sugar-stick.
Skeeter entered the saloon and took his place behind the bar to wait
for Shin Bone. He did not have long to wait, and when Shin Bone
appeared Skeeter gasped, and his hand slipped to the little shelf under
the bar where his automatic pistol rested.
Shin had been drinking heavily, but the liquor had not made him noisy.
He was extremely quiet. He walked restlessly about the barroom with
the prowling movements of a cat, careful not to make a noise with his
feet as he staggered across the floor, answering if spoken to in a
whisper, and glancing nervously around him all the time. The practised
eyes of the negroes recognized the signs of danger. They knew Shin was
out to kill. Some slipped away, and all the others became perfectly
quiet. They knew that a loud laugh, the noise of an overturned chair,
the breaking of a glass, the clatter of a stick falling to the floor,
any of these things might start the drink-crazed negro to shooting.
Shin had not only never been drunk before, but no one had ever seen him
drinking. But now no jungle beast was more dangerous.
Finally Shin walked straight up to Skeeter and leaned against the bar.
“Skeeter, is you got my little boy?” he inquired in a low tone with
exaggerated courtesy.
“Dar’s a little pickaninny sleepin’ on a quilt in de back room, Shin,”
Skeeter answered uneasily.
“I wants him,” Shin remarked.
“He ain’t no kinnery of mine, Shin,” the barkeeper retorted. “Ever who
owns him kin hab him.”
“Dis here sinful saloom ain’t no fitten place fer my angel chile,” Shin
remarked in the same low, deadly tone.
“His maw axed me to keep him, Shin,” Skeeter said. “Of co’se, a daddy
is got de fust right to his own baby an’ I’s jes’ tryin’ to be friends
on bofe sides.”
“You ain’t no friend of mine,” Shin told him flatly. “I ain’t huntin’
no friends. I’s huntin’ revengeance!”
Shin walked away, muttering to himself.
Skeeter listened and heard Shin stumble across the floor in the rear
room. With a loud grunt he stooped over the soiled quilt where Ready
Rocket lay. With a louder grunt, he lifted the boy in his arms, and
Skeeter heard him stagger to the door and close it quietly behind him.
A few minutes later Skeeter heard a loud wail down the street, and
broke into a broad grin.
“I reckin Shin is done fell on Ready Rocket an’ squshed him; mebbe he’s
done squoze Ready’s sore arm; mebbe Ready’s got de colics--I hopes so.
I hopes all dem things is come to pass.”
* * * * *
About two hours after Shin Bone had taken his departure with little
Ready Rocket, Mustard Prophet entered, looked around the barroom for a
moment, then came over to Skeeter Butts, and inquired:
“Whar is Ready Rocket?”
“Gawd knows,” Skeeter replied. “He has went.”
“Happy Rocket sont me to fetch him home,” Mustard said. “She say it’s
little Ready’s bedtime an’ he’ll git sleepy.”
“My stars an’ garters!” Skeeter exclaimed. “She don’t look fer dat brat
home to-night, do she?”
“Suttinly. Whar is he at?”
Skeeter began to pant. He mopped the sweat from his forehead and looked
around him desperately. His eyes lighted upon Pap Curtain.
“Come over dis way, Pap,” he called.
When Pap and Mustard stood side by side, Skeeter leaned over the bar
and said earnestly:
“Pap, I want you an’ Mustard to keep bar fer me till I git back.”
“Dat suits us!” the two darkies chanted.
“I’ll tend to little Ready Rocket, Mustard,” Skeeter said as he reached
for his derby hat.
As he passed out the two negroes looked at each other and grinned.
“Skeeter’s done kotch de mattermony germ agin,” Pap chuckled. “Tryin’
to hitch up wid Happy Rocket an’ her whelp. Lawd! Think of Skeeter
marryin’ a widder an’ a ready-made fambly!”
Skeeter made a bee-line for Mustard Prophet’s cabin where Mrs. Happy
Rocket could be found. But he had no matrimonial intentions.
“I jes’ drapped over to tell you ’bout little Ready Rocket, Happy,”
Skeeter began as soon as he was seated. “Ready won’t be home to-night.”
“Won’t--_which_?” Happy’s voice was almost a scream.
“Ready’s gwine lay out to-night,” Skeeter remarked easily, lighting a
cigarette.
“How come?” Happy wailed, and her voice had a note of hysteria.
“It happened dis way,” Skeeter replied. “Ready got a little sleepy an’
I spread him down a pallet on de flo’ in de rear room. A drunk bum
named Shin Bone foun’ little Ready an’ thought it wus his own chile, so
he picked him up an’ toted him off!”
Skeeter didn’t see any actuating cause for what followed this statement
and the astounding result gave him the supreme sensation of his life.
Mrs. Happy Rocket sprang to her feet, spun round and round like a
whirling dervish, tore at her hair, then wrapped her long arms around
her head and screamed like a maniac!
“My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Stop dat yelpin’--you’s fetchin’ dat
bawl too high! A police will come an’ git you toreckly!”
“O my chile! my chile! my baby chile!” Happy screamed, wringing her
hands, walking up and down the porch floor, and stopping her walk now
and then to spin around like a top. “Lawd hab mussy! My onliest baby
chile!”
“Aw, hush!” Skeeter pleaded, absolutely blind to the distress of the
woman. “You done mourned a plenty ’bout dat little weanlin’. He ain’t
nothin’ but a two-year-ole!”
“Stole by a drunk man!” Happy whooped. “Toted away! O my po’ little
baby boy--he’ll be kilt!”
“Naw!” Skeeter protested. “Shin won’t do nothin’ like dat. Shin thinks
dat is his boy. He’ll fotch little Ready back as quick as he gits
sober.”
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Happy screamed, as she turned from Skeeter and staggered
into the house. “Oh!”
The agony in the mother’s voice caused Skeeter’s hair to stand on end.
Inside the room Happy fell flat upon the floor unconscious.
“Gawd he’p us!” Skeeter screamed. “She’s done throwed a fit!”
He called loudly for Hopey, Mustard Prophet’s wife, then instantly
remembered that she had not yet come from the Gaitskill home where she
was cook. He started out of the door in a run to seek for help and met
Hopey at the gate. She had heard the screams and had come in a panic.
Hopey was fat and spread out like a dumpling soaked in gravy, and was
sweating like an ice pitcher from her excitement and exertion.
“Whut’s de matter, Skeeter Butts?” she howled. “All dis flurry gibs me
a toothache in my stomick.”
“Happy ain’t happy no more,” Skeeter lamented. “She’s hacked!”
“Whut made her dis way?” Hopey panted, as she bent over the young
mother’s prostrate form.
“She got peeved up beca’se I borrered little Ready Rocket an’ couldn’t
fotch him back,” Skeeter explained.
“Go git him!” Hopey whooped. “Hurry befo’ dis nigger woman dies!”
“Huh,” Skeeter grunted. “You ack like a little nigger cub is wuth a
millyum dollars!”
“Go git him!” Hopey howled.
“I don’t know whar he am!” Skeeter retorted. “Shin Bone swiped him!”
“You nachel-bawn, ignernunt _fool_!” Hopey screamed. “Shin ain’t run
off nowheres! I passed de restaurant jes’ now an’ he wus settin’ in dar
by hisse’f singin’ religium toons! Go git Ready!”
Skeeter shot out of the door and ran across the yard, but before he
reached the street, Hopey bawled atter him:
“When dis nigger woman comes outen her fit, I’s gwine tell her all
about dat plan you fixed up to make Shin steal her darlin’ chile--an’
she’ll pull yo’ hind leg off an’ beat yo’ brains out wid it!”
At the nearest corner Skeeter came to a quick stop.
“Ef Shin Bone is settin’ in his eatin’ house drunk an’ singin’ religium
toons, it’s a shore sign he’d shoot me in a minute ef I tried to git
dat Ready Rocket.”
He snatched off his hat, clawed at his thinly cropped hair, and sighed
like the exhaust of a steamboat.
“Ain’t I in a awful mess?” he panted. “I done twisted an’ turned myse’f
till I’s too crooked to walk through a tunnel--when I die dey’ll hab to
bury me in a round hat box!”
He dropped down upon an old stump, and his nervous feet beat a tattoo
upon the sandy soil.
“I never knowed womans wus so crazy about deir chillun befo’,” he
exclaimed. “_My_ mammy done los’ me out in de woods an’ Marse John
Flournoy foun’ me in de swamp when I wus ’bout two year ole. He tole
me I wus plum’ naked, jes’ crawlin’ aroun’ in de high marsh grass like
a little lan’ tarrapin. Dat don’t look like nigger mammies loved deir
brats. But den, dey done foun’ my mammy daid in anodder part of de
swamp. But dese here moderm niggers--lawd, dey shore cherish spite!”
Suddenly a new thought galvanized him into action.
“Dat’s de idear!” he proclaimed, springing to the middle of the street
and running at full speed. “I’ll ride out to de hog-camp in de Little
Moccasin Swamp an’ make Whiffle Bone let me fotch back little Shinny to
his real paw. Den I’ll get Shin Bone to swap brats wid me, an’ dat’ll
make us even an’ end all dese troubles.”
He ran through the crooked lanes of Dirty-Six like a brown shadow,
passed with unchecked speed through the portion of Tickfall occupied by
the whites, and began to pant up the long hill on the summit of which
stood the house of Sheriff John Flournoy.
Skeeter was perfectly at home here, for he lived in a cabin in the
rear of Flournoy’s house, and had done just as he pleased about the
place ever since Flournoy had found him in the swamp, a little naked
baby crawling through the high marsh grass, mewing like a little blind
kitten. He hurried around the house to the garage and opened the doors
as noiselessly as he could. He had determined to use a little runabout
which Flournoy kept for his fishing and hunting trips. In this machine
he could go to the hog-camp, get Whiffle Bone’s baby, and return in a
very short time.
He pushed the little runabout out of the garage, pushed it down the
hill in the rear of the house, cranked it, sprang into the seat, and
drove through a back pasture, out of a gate, and onto the rear street.
He took one fearful look behind him and saw with gratification that no
light had flashed up in Flournoy’s house to show that the occupants had
been disturbed by his intrusion upon the property.
Skeeter shot through the white portion of the town, and turned into the
lanes of Dirty-Six at a perilous speed. His dilapidated machine was
rattling and squeaking a loud protest at every turn, but Skeeter did
not heed the warning.
Then as Skeeter passed Pap Curtain’s house, a tire burst with a loud
explosion, the runabout careened perilously, and before Skeeter could
stop, it leaped from the road, crashed through Pap Curtain’s fence,
and came to a halt within a few steps of Pap’s porch.
In the silence which followed, Skeeter heard a woman in Pap’s cabin
whooping like a siren in a fog.
“Aw, shut up!” Skeeter snapped. “You ain’t in no danger. _I’s_ de coon
whut oughter be howlin’.”
He leaped out of the machine, snatched open the tool box, wrenched off
an extra tire from the rear of the car and began to make repairs.
The door opened and Whiffle Bone stepped out upon the porch!
“Bless gracious, Whiffle!” Skeeter exclaimed in a glad voice, as he
worked with furious haste adjusting his new tire. “I thought you wus
out at de hog-camp. Whar is little Shinny Bone?”
This question started another series of howls, and Skeeter had his tire
fitted and was ready to crank his car before Whiffle had calmed down to
where she could answer.
“Little Shinny has went!” Whiffle screamed. “I decided not to go to
de hog-camp beca’se it wus so fur. I tried to keep little Shinny hid
in dis cabin. But Hopey Prophet an’ a nigger woman named Happy comed
here jes’ now, an’ Happy blacked my eye an’ punched my face an’ hurt
my feelin’s at some yuther places an’ took little Shinny Bone away.
Dey said dey wus gwine keep him fer security till you fotch back Ready
Rocket! I woulder follered ’em, but I wus skeart dey would kill me!”
“Dat’s good news, Whiffle!” Skeeter exclaimed as he cranked his car,
and sprang into the seat. “Keep ca’m, an’ plug up de calliope! I’ll go
364
git Ready Rocket an’ fetch little Shinny back in less’n a minute!”
* * * * *
“I’ll git little Shinny fust,” Skeeter decided as he shot down the
street. He stopped his automobile a block away from Mustard Prophet’s
house, ran down the street, and slipped into a little side yard by
climbing the fence.
Hopey and Happy were in the kitchen, and Skeeter heard Hopey’s loud
voice:
“’Tain’t no good fer you to howl, Happy. Skeeter will fotch back yo’
little boy as quick as he kin git him, an’ we done got dat yuther
woman’s brat fer s’curity.”
’“Tain’t nothin’ like habin’ yo’ own chile!” Happy wailed.
“Hey!” Hopey bellowed. “Sup up dis hot tea now an’ stop blubberin’!”