“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.”