Finally Shin walked straight up to Skeeter and leaned against the bar.
“Skeeter, is you got my little boy?” he inquired in a low tone with exaggerated courtesy.
“Dar’s a little pickaninny sleepin’ on a quilt in de back room, Shin,” Skeeter answered uneasily.
“I wants him,” Shin remarked.
“He ain’t no kinnery of mine, Shin,” the barkeeper retorted. “Ever who owns him kin hab him.”
“Dis here sinful saloom ain’t no fitten place fer my angel chile,” Shin remarked in the same low, deadly tone.
“His maw axed me to keep him, Shin,” Skeeter said. “Of co’se, a daddy is got de fust right to his own baby an’ I’s jes’ tryin’ to be friends on bofe sides.”
“You ain’t no friend of mine,” Shin told him flatly. “I ain’t huntin’ no friends. I’s huntin’ revengeance!”
Shin walked away, muttering to himself.
Skeeter listened and heard Shin stumble across the floor in the rear room. With a loud grunt he stooped over the soiled quilt where Ready Rocket lay. With a louder grunt, he lifted the boy in his arms, and Skeeter heard him stagger to the door and close it quietly behind him.