“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Happy screamed, as she turned from Skeeter and staggered into the house. “Oh!”
The agony in the mother’s voice caused Skeeter’s hair to stand on end. Inside the room Happy fell flat upon the floor unconscious.
“Gawd he’p us!” Skeeter screamed. “She’s done throwed a fit!”
He called loudly for Hopey, Mustard Prophet’s wife, then instantly remembered that she had not yet come from the Gaitskill home where she was cook. He started out of the door in a run to seek for help and met Hopey at the gate. She had heard the screams and had come in a panic.
Hopey was fat and spread out like a dumpling soaked in gravy, and was sweating like an ice pitcher from her excitement and exertion.
“Whut’s de matter, Skeeter Butts?” she howled. “All dis flurry gibs me a toothache in my stomick.”
“Happy ain’t happy no more,” Skeeter lamented. “She’s hacked!”
“Whut made her dis way?” Hopey panted, as she bent over the young mother’s prostrate form.
“She got peeved up beca’se I borrered little Ready Rocket an’ couldn’t fotch him back,” Skeeter explained.
“Go git him!” Hopey whooped. “Hurry befo’ dis nigger woman dies!”