“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.”