The black woman broke in, in a high, shrill voice.
“Not take her. That li’l pfeller, picaninny belongin’ to me.”
“Picaninny’s mother’s wanting her,” Norah said her voice pitying.
“Mine!” said the black woman, uncertainly—“mine!” She held the child closer, rocking her to and fro; and the children stared at her, not knowing how to solve the problem.
Billy had no illusions. He grasped the gin’s arm, and jerked her to her feet.
“Baal you be a fool?” he said, roughly. “S’pos’n’ p’liceman come, you bin find yourself in lock-up, plenty quick! P’lice bin lookin’ for you this long time ’cause you bin steal picaninny.”
She winced and shivered, looking at him with great stupid eyes, like an injured animal’s.
“You come and see my father,” said Norah, gently, putting one hand on her arm; and somewhat to their surprise, the gin came, making no further outcry, but holding the child to her. So they went back through the scrub. Billy led them swiftly, making but a short distance, in a straight line, of the long and tortuous race that the fugitive had led them. It seemed a very few minutes before they saw the canvas of the tent shining white through the trees, and heard voices beyond.
Quite suddenly, the black gin stopped. For a moment she held the child to her so savagely that the little thing cried out in pain. She muttered over her.
“My li’l pfeller picaninny!” she said. “Mine!” She turned to Norah.