“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.