In a moment more Skeeter was pushing and shoving at the door, while his voice cackled like a hen:
“Git out de way an’ lemme pass! Lemme git in wid dese here stole babies!”
They made a ring around him in the middle of the room as he placed the two grinning, bright-eyed children on the floor at his feet. Each baby was happily chewing a chicken bone. The two mothers rushed forward to embrace their children, but Skeeter’s commanding voice cracked like a bull-whip:
“Stan’ back, nigger womans! Don’t tech dem brats till I gib de word!”
There was a moment of intense silence while Skeeter gathered his wits to speak. No one in that crowd will ever know how frightened the little barkeeper was, nor how desperate. He had determined to risk his life and liberty upon the magic name of John Flournoy, Sheriff of Tickfall parish.
If this name failed to save him, he saw nothing before him but the prison and the hangman’s noose.
“I been talkin’ to Sheriff John Flournoy,” he began. “Me an’ Marse John is kinnery—I’m his folks.”
He paused and took out his handkerchief, mopping his face. He felt like every pore of his skin was a spouting fountain of perspiration and he was sweating ice water.
“I went up to Marse John’s house an’ tole him dat Shin Bone stole little Ready Rocket outen my saloon, an’ Marse John mighty nigh bust out cryin’! I tole him dat Happy Rocket stole little Shinny Bone right outen his mammy’s arms, an’ Marse John jes’ blubbered right out like a little baby!”
“I don’t see nothin’ so powerful bad!” Shin Bone interrupted.