It was sundown when Skeeter got back to the saloon, and he ate his supper and waited impatiently until the darkness was heavy enough for him to venture after Happy’s son. At last he slipped to her cabin, lifted the laughing little fellow upon his shoulders, and carried him back to the rear room of his saloon.
“Huh,” Skeeter grunted as he turned on the light and surveyed the boy. “Happy shore has put de paradise rags on Ready Rocket. He looks like a valumtime. I don’t b’lieve he’ll feel half as comf’able in dem gyarmints as he will in dese sensible clothes.”
Then for the first time in his life Skeeter began to undress a baby. His inexperienced hands were as clumsy as if he wore boxing-gloves; he felt around the garments for buttons and stuck pins in himself; he unhitched parts of the little fellow’s harness and found to his surprise that they were connected with other parts of his clothes which apparently had no way of being detached. The sweat popped out on Skeeter’s face, his fingers trembled, and his lips were drawn in a straight, nervous line.
“Gosh!” he sighed. “Dis is de hardest wuck I ever done, an’ I ain’t done it yit. Dis job ain’t even good started. It would take about fo’teen womans to undress dis valumtime doll. I bet his maw melted him in a cookin’ pot an’ poured him into dese clothes.”
He struggled on, jerking and pulling, but accomplishing little. Then he straightened up and surveyed his task.
“Ef I could button dem clothes on de way dey wus at fust, I’d put little Shinny’s rags on over ’em,” he announced to himself. Then he shook his head hopelessly. “’Tain’t no use tryin’ dat. I gotter study dis problem out an’ git dem bliss rags off!” He turned the boy around to take a comprehensive survey of the mystery. Then he found a button in the rear and undid it. The clothes fell off of little Ready Rocket like the last leaf off of a tree, leaving the limbs bare.
“Dar now!” Skeeter snickered. “Ain’t dat funny! Dis here is a one-button suit. You press de button an’ lo an’ beholes!”
He looked the tiny black-skinned chunk of humanity over. On Ready’s left arm he found an ugly scar.
“Looks like a fresh vaccinate mark to me,” he muttered. “I mighty nigh fergot whut Happy tole me ’bout dat sore arm.”
He brought a bright red stick of candy out of his pocket and placed it in Ready Rocket’s willing hand.