“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.