Skeeter saw here another opportunity to break up the fountains of the great deep and start a flood of tears, so he sought for a diplomatic answer in hope of preventing a crevasse.
“Shin is his daddy, you is his mammy—he b’longs to you bofe,” Skeeter replied.
“I figger dat he is my chile,” Mrs. Bone said, beginning to sniffle.
“Yes’m,” Skeeter answered hastily. “I thinks so, too!”
“Shin figgers dat little Shinny is his chile,” Mrs. Bone remarked, sniffling some more.
“Yes’m,” Skeeter grunted. “Yes’m! Dat’s so!”
“I’s got de chile now, but Shin say he’s gwine take him away from me,” Mrs. Bone declared, and now the shower of tears began with a rush. “Whut muss I do?”
“You mought stop dis weepin’-willer, deep-mournin’ stunt till I 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.