“Ready’s gwine lay out to-night,” Skeeter remarked easily, lighting a cigarette.
“How come?” Happy wailed, and her voice had a note of hysteria.
“It happened dis way,” Skeeter replied. “Ready got a little sleepy an’ I spread him down a pallet on de flo’ in de rear room. A drunk bum named Shin Bone foun’ little Ready an’ thought it wus his own chile, so he picked him up an’ toted him off!”
Skeeter didn’t see any actuating cause for what followed this statement and the astounding result gave him the supreme sensation of his life.
Mrs. Happy Rocket sprang to her feet, spun round and round like a whirling dervish, tore at her hair, then wrapped her long arms around her head and screamed like a maniac!
“My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Stop dat yelpin’—you’s fetchin’ dat bawl too high! A police will come an’ git you toreckly!”
“O my chile! my chile! my baby chile!” Happy screamed, wringing her hands, walking up and down the porch floor, and stopping her walk now and then to spin around like a top. “Lawd hab mussy! My onliest baby chile!”
“Aw, hush!” Skeeter pleaded, absolutely blind to the distress of the woman. “You done mourned a plenty ’bout dat little weanlin’. He ain’t nothin’ but a two-year-ole!”
“Stole by a drunk man!” Happy whooped. “Toted away! O my po’ little baby boy—he’ll be kilt!”
“Naw!” Skeeter protested. “Shin won’t do nothin’ like dat. Shin thinks dat is his boy. He’ll fotch little Ready back as quick as he gits sober.”