“What you call huh?”
“I calls huh Jimsella, dat’s what I calls huh, ’ca’se she de ve’y spittin’ image of you. I gwine to jes’ lun to huh dat she had a pappy, so she know she’s a hones’ chile an’ kin hol’ up huh haid.”
“Oomph!”
They were both silent for a while, and then Jim said, “Huh name ought to be Jamsella—don’t you know Jim’s sho’t fu’ James?”
“I don’t keer what it’s sho’t fu’.” The woman was holding the baby close to her breast and sobbing now. “It wasn’t no James dat come a-cou’tin’ me down home. It was jes’ plain Jim. Dat’s what de mattah, I reckon you done got to be James.” Jim didn’t answer, and there was another space of silence, only interrupted by two or three contented gurgles from the baby.
“I bet two bits she don’t look like me,” he said finally, in a dogged tone that was a little tinged with curiosity.
“I know she do. Look at huh yo’se’f.”
“I ain’ gwine look at huh.”
“Yes, you’s ’fraid—dat’s de reason.”
“I ain’ ’fraid nuttin’ de kin’. What I got to be ’fraid fu’? I reckon a man kin look at his own darter. I will look jes’ to spite you.”