A mocking-bird sang his delirious music unnoticed above the head of Skeeter Butts as he sat beneath a chinaberry tree trying to recover from the shock of the latest negro sensation in Tickfall—the separation of Shin Bone and his wife.

“Dey shore got through wid demselves powerful soon,” he muttered to himself as he lighted a fresh cigarette upon the stub of the old one. “Dey ain’t been married but ’bout three years, an’ deir baby tuck de prize at de baby show.”

He propped his chair back against the trunk of the tree, tipped his derby hat down upon the bridge of his nose, put his shoe-heels inside the front rungs of the chair, and puffed his smoke in deep meditation.

“Wonder how come dey busted up?” he mused aloud in a low tone. “I reckin it’s one of dese here do-mes-tic in-feli-city cases. Hush! Look at who’s drawin’ nigh!”

The front legs of Skeeter’s chair came down upon the sand with a thump, he straightened his derby upon his closely shaved head, adjusted his high collar, and his noisy cravat, and waited.

Whiffle Bone came around the rear of the saloon, leading her two-year-old boy by the hand. Skeeter sprang up, gave her a chair, and seated himself. The baby dropped upon the ground and began the construction of a sand house.

Not a word was spoken until both were comfortably seated, then Shin Bone’s wife began:

“Me an’ Shin is picked a fuss wid each yuther an’ quit.”

“Yes’m,” Skeeter answered sympathetically.

The woman sat twisting her nervous hands, biting her lips, and turning at intervals to look behind her as if she expected some one to follow her. Finally she leaned over, rested her elbows upon her lap and her head upon her hands and began to cry, wailing like a calliope.

“Lawdymussy!” Skeeter gasped sucking the stub of his lighted cigarette into his mouth in his surprise. He sprang up, gagged, clawed at his lips, dancing first on one foot, then on the other.

“Aw, hush!” Skeeter howled at last, when he had rescued himself from the fire. “Shut up! Ef you wanter bust up wid Shin Bone, bust—but don’t beller! Ef you wanter cornfess up to me about yo’ troubles, bawl out—but don’t beller! Ef you wanter pull my leg fer a few loose change to git back to yo’ home folks, go ahead an’ pull—but fer Gawd’s sake, don’t beller! Dis ain’t de right season of de year fer a long wet spell like you done started—it’ll spile de craps!”

Any married man could have told Skeeter that the best way to turn a light summer shower into a cloud-burst of rainfall was to admonish a woman not to cry. As it was, Skeeter learned this fact on this occasion by hard experience. The louder Skeeter bawled, the louder Whiffle Bone “bellered,” and finally Skeeter sat down in despair and began to fiddle with a brass wrist-watch which he wore.

Gradually Whiffle’s wails died down to an occasional blobbering gurgle, like water pouring out of the choked neck of a bottle. When she straightened up and began to mop the tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron, Skeeter inquired:

“Whut made you an’ Shin explode yo’ fambly life?”

“Money!” Whiffle answered shortly. “I done all de cookin’ an’ de waitin’ on at our eatin’-house. Shin, he done light haulin’ wid de hoss an’ wagin, cut all de wood, an’ hauled it outen de swamp, an’ cleant up de eatin’-house befo’ breakfust in de mawnin’.”

“You-all ’vided up yo’ wuck pretty even,” Skeeter remarked.

“Yes, suh. But Shin, he argufy dat de money oughter be ’vided up even, too; me, I argufy dat I oughter keep all de money an’ gib Shin jes’ as much as I figgered he oughter hab.”

“Cain’t you-all compermise yo’ ’spute no way?” Skeeter inquired.

“De only way fer Shin to compermise wid me is to comp’ on my own terms,” Whiffle wailed. “Ain’t dat so?”

“Yes’m,” Skeeter agreed readily. “Sometimes a nigger man kin compermise wid a woman an’ git her to take his own terms; but fust of all, he’s got to bounce ’bout seven rocks offen her head.”

This remark started Whiffle again, and the sobs began to pop from her throat like the exhaust of a gasoline engine.

“Aw, shuckins!” Skeeter grumbled. “Now I done gone an’ punched a hole in de water-barrel agin. Shut up, Whiffle! You’s too durn moistuous to suit me—ef I ’a’ knowed you wus cornin’ here to wet me wid all yo’ fambly troubles, I’d borrered a rubber divin’-suit!” In his exasperation, Skeeter hurled his cigarette-stub to the ground, and sat glaring around him, wondering what to do.

Whiffle’s baby picked up the cigarette-stub, put the lighted end into his mouth, and emitted a yelp which raised Skeeter out of his chair, and which trailed off into a series of shuddering wails like the call of a screech-owl.

“My good gosh!” Skeeter howled, glaring indignantly at the youngster and his mother. “De ole she-bear an’ de cub bofe at it now! Whut you wanter wish all dis Gulf of Mex’co full of tears onto me fer? I’s gwine build me a Noer’s ark!”

Whiffle promptly forgot her tears in an effort to assuage the grief of her son.

“Po’ little pickaninny—mammy’s little darlin’!” she crooned, as she lifted him upon her lap. “You want mammy to sing you a song? Listen, honey, shet yo’ eyes an’ shet yo’ mouf, an’ cock yo’ ears an’ listen!”

The tears were glistening upon her wet cheeks, as she drew the little boy close to her and crooned:

“Huh!” Skeeter Butts murmured to himself as he watched the woman and her child. “I wonder do she really love dat kid, or is she huggin’ him jes’ to spite Shin Bone? I never knowed who my mammy or daddy wus, an’ I don’t got no way to find out.”

As the woman sang, she looked off across the spaces, focusing her tear-wet eyes upon the purple haze which hung above the Little Moccasin Swamp. In a moment, the whimpering of the baby ceased, and his tired head rested in sleep upon his young mother’s ample bosom. After a while Whiffle reverted to her trouble with her husband.

“I been keepin’ all de money sence we wus married, Skeeter, so when me an’ Shin quit I jes’ tied up de loose change in a stockin’-toe an’ fotch it away wid me. Dat leaves Shin de eatin’-house an’ de hoss an’ wagin.”

“I figger dat wus fair,” Skeeter replied in an earnest desire to be propitiatory and prevent any more tears.

“Whut I come to see you ’bout is dis, Skeeter: who do dis little pickaninny b’long to?” and as she spoke, Whiffle hugged the little boy closer to her and gazed down fondly on his tear-marked face.

Skeeter saw here another opportunity to break up the fountains of the great deep and start a flood of tears, so he sought for a diplomatic answer in hope of preventing a crevasse.

“Shin is his daddy, you is his mammy—he b’longs to you bofe,” Skeeter replied.

“I figger dat he is my chile,” Mrs. Bone said, beginning to sniffle.

“Yes’m,” Skeeter answered hastily. “I thinks so, too!”

“Shin figgers dat little Shinny is his chile,” Mrs. Bone remarked, sniffling some more.

“Yes’m,” Skeeter grunted. “Yes’m! Dat’s so!”

“I’s got de chile now, but Shin say he’s gwine take him away from me,” Mrs. Bone declared, and now the shower of tears began with a rush. “Whut muss I do?”

“You mought stop dis weepin’-willer, deep-mournin’ stunt till I kin git my brains to thinkin’,” Skeeter suggested. “You gib me de muddlegrubs cuttin’ up like dis! Why don’t you take de chile an’ run off somewheres?”

“’Twon’t do no good,” Whiffle sobbed. “Shin would foller atter me an’ take little Shinny away!”

“You mought let Shin keep him half de time, an’ you keep him half de time,” Skeeter proposed.

“Ef Shin ever gits holt of dis boy, he’ll keep him all de time,” Whiffle wailed.

“Aw, mud!” Skeeter vociferated, staring at the weeping woman. “I never seed sech a puddle as you make out of yo’se’f. Dry up!”

The conversation ceased for about ten minutes, but the silence was constantly shattered by the cork-popping sobs of Whiffle.

“Skeeter,” she pleaded finally, “would you wish to he’p me keep my little boy all fer myse’f? I kin take better keer of him dan Shin.”

“Yes’m, I’s willin’ to he’p,” Skeeter said uncertainly. “You see, I ain’t never been married an’ I don’t know nothin’ ’bout chillun or deir mammies. I don’t know jes’ perzackly whut I kin do. It might be dangersome fer a igernunt nigger like me to butt into mattermony matters.”

“’Tain’t no danger,” Whiffle replied quickly. “Shin is gwine try to steal dis chile from me ternight, an’ I wants you to he’p me guard him.”

Skeeter lighted a cigarette and sat puffing at it for a long time. Then his eyes began to sparkle, and he said with a chuckle:

“I’ll take you up on dat, Whiffle.”

“Whut is you gwine do?” Whiffle asked, her face shining with relief.

“I dopes it out like dis,” Skeeter answered. “A new nigger woman is visitin’ in dis town, an’ me an her begun to shine up to each yuther real prompt. She’s got a little boy jes’ de size an’ age an’ color of dis here brat of your’n.”

“Dat don’t he’p me none,” Whiffle mourned.

“When I talks—you listen!” Skeeter snapped. “Don’t try to bake no biscuits till I git done mixin’ de dough! All I wants you to do is to git de repote to Shin Bone private an’ confidential dat you is gwine out of town fer a little rest an’ dat I will keep yo’ baby till you gits back. Atter dat, jes’ take yo’ brat an’ go!”

“But ef I takes him wid me, you won’t hab him,” Whiffle whined.

“Oh, my big toe!” Skeeter snarled. “I don’t blame Shin Bone fer gittin’ a deevo’ce—you ain’t got no sense! Whut I means is dis: I’ll borrer my lady frien’s little boy to-night. Shin will git de repote dat I am keepin’ little Shinny. Of co’se, Shin will come to de Hen-Scratch an’ swipe de chile I’m got an’ run away. When daylight comes, he’ll discover dat he’s got some yuther nigger’s boy!”

“I sees,” Whiffle whimpered. “But ef Shin come an’ swipes de wrong baby, whut will yo’ lady frien’ say to you?”

“Nothin’,” Skeeter replied. “She won’t hab no kick-back. Of co’se, when Shin finds out dat he’s got de wrong pup by de year, he’ll jes’ nachelly fotch him back to his real maw. Nobody don’t want somebody else’s yearlin’.”

“Dat’s right,” Whiffle muttered. “I’d hate to loant my honey boy fer dat puppus, but mebbe yo’ lady frien’ is diff’unt. I’ll succulate de repote of me leavin’ so Shin kin git it.”

“Good-by!” Skeeter grinned.

A few minutes after Whiffle had gone, Skeeter Butts left his business in charge of his assistant and started toward the home of Mustard Prophet, where his new friend was visiting. He found her sitting on the porch, entertaining her little boy.

“Howdy, Happy!” he greeted her. “How’s you an’ de little boy to-day?”

“Us is feelin’ fine,” Happy smiled. “How come you is runnin’ aroun’ when you oughter be keepin’ bar?”

“I come to cornverse you ’bout a little bizzness,” Skeeter answered promptly.

“Come up an’ set down!” the young woman invited, pushing aside and making a place for him on the bench she occupied. “Rest yo’ hat, put yo’ foots on de porch rail, light a cigar, wind yo’ watch—jes’ make yo’se’f at home.”

“Yes’m,” Skeeter grinned, as he seated himself beside her. “Yo’ name is shore a good sign of yo’ disposition—bofe is happy. But, Happy, ef yo’ name gimme de lock-jaw eve’y time I pernounced it, it would still taste awful good to me!”

“You muss hab kissed de coal-oil can befo’ you lef’ de Hen-Scratch, Skeeter,” Happy responded. “Yo’ nigger tongue is mighty slick!”

Skeeter ignored the remark and looked the woman over with appraising eyes. She was tall, slim, graceful, dark-skinned, bright-eyed, with an easy-smiling, good-natured mouth. Her home was in Baton Rouge, her dress and manner bespoke the city, and Skeeter’s susceptible heart was deeply affected.

“Dat’s a beautiful chile,” Skeeter remarked fondly, as he gazed at the little boy who sat on the floor trying to see how close he could poke his finger toward the business end of a wasp without getting stung.

“Yes, suh, I’s shore proud of my baby,” the woman smiled.

“Would you loant him to me fer a little while to-night, Happy?” Skeeter asked.

“Whut you wanter do wid him?”

“He’s such a diff’unt-lookin’ kid to all dese here dirty pickaninnies in dis town dat I flggered it would be a good edgercation fer dese here home niggers to see him,” Skeeter recited glibly. “Me an’ Sheriff Flournoy follers up de Nigger Uplift Movement, an’ I don’t know nothin’ dat’ll put good notions in a nigger’s head like gittin’ a look at dis nice, dean, dressy nigger boy.”

“Ain’t it de trufe!” Happy exclaimed proudly.

“Yes’m,” Skeeter continued. “I figger dat I could take yo’ little boy to de Hen-Scratch to-night, show him off, brag on him, an’ make dese home niggers ashamed of deir offsprings—ain’t dat so?”

“Shore is!” Happy replied. “I wisht I could be dar an’ hear you brag yo’ brags on him.”

“’Tain’t possible,” Skeeter exclaimed quickly. “Womans ain’t be allowed in de Scratch. But ef yo’ little boy makes a hit, I might could git de Revun Vinegar Atts to gib a baby show at de Shoofly chu’ch, an’ I’m shore yo’ little boy would tote off de prize.”

“You kin hab him, Skeeter!” the woman exclaimed exultantly. “You come fer him to-night atter supper. I’ll hab him all dressed up like a circus bandwagon. Only I gibs you dis advice right now: don’t grab my chile by de lef’ arm onless you wants him to sot up a howl. Dat arm is powerful sore!”

“I’ll lead him by de han’ like a gen’leman,” Skeeter grinned. “Whut is de name he’s called by?”

“I calls him Ready Rocket—atter his deceasted paw,” Happy told him.

“I’ll come by fer him atter dark, Mrs. Rocket,” Skeeter declared, as he reached for his hat. “Git him ready.”

As Skeeter walked down the street a new idea came to him.

“Dat woman is gwine dress up dat kid like a Mardi Gras, an’ Shin won’t swipe him—Shin’ll know dat ain’t his’n. I wonder is Whiffle lef’ town yit?”

Skeeter hastened to Pap Curtain’s cabin and found that Whiffle had not.

“Whiffle,” he said, “I come mighty nigh fergittin’ a mos’ important bizzness. I want some of little Shinny’s ole ragged clothes. Ef Shin comes to steal dat yuther brat to-night, we got to fix him up so Shin won’t find out de cub ain’t his’n.”

“I got plenty ragged clothes,” Whiffle replied. “I’ll git you a full suit.”

“When is you leavin’ out fer de hog-camp, Whiffle?” Skeeter asked as soon as the suit was wrapped in a bundle.

“I’s gittin’ ready to walk right now,” Whiffle told him.

“Dat’s a good idear to walk it,” Skeeter remarked. “You kin take shawt cut-offs through de woods, an’ ef anybody is passin’ you kin hide in de grass so dey cain’t see you is got little Shinny wid you.”

“It’s a powerful long walk,” Whiffle complained. “But I guess I’m got to take it.”

“You kin come back in de mawnin’,” Skeeter assured her, as he rose to go. “When Shin finds out he’s made a miscue an’ stole de wrong chile, de Tickfall niggers will buzz him till he leaves town fer good.”

It was sundown when Skeeter got back to the saloon, and he ate his supper and waited impatiently until the darkness was heavy enough for him to venture after Happy’s son. At last he slipped to her cabin, lifted the laughing little fellow upon his shoulders, and carried him back to the rear room of his saloon.

“Huh,” Skeeter grunted as he turned on the light and surveyed the boy. “Happy shore has put de paradise rags on Ready Rocket. He looks like a valumtime. I don’t b’lieve he’ll feel half as comf’able in dem gyarmints as he will in dese sensible clothes.”

Then for the first time in his life Skeeter began to undress a baby. His inexperienced hands were as clumsy as if he wore boxing-gloves; he felt around the garments for buttons and stuck pins in himself; he unhitched parts of the little fellow’s harness and found to his surprise that they were connected with other parts of his clothes which apparently had no way of being detached. The sweat popped out on Skeeter’s face, his fingers trembled, and his lips were drawn in a straight, nervous line.

“Gosh!” he sighed. “Dis is de hardest wuck I ever done, an’ I ain’t done it yit. Dis job ain’t even good started. It would take about fo’teen womans to undress dis valumtime doll. I bet his maw melted him in a cookin’ pot an’ poured him into dese clothes.”

He struggled on, jerking and pulling, but accomplishing little. Then he straightened up and surveyed his task.

“Ef I could button dem clothes on de way dey wus at fust, I’d put little Shinny’s rags on over ’em,” he announced to himself. Then he shook his head hopelessly. “’Tain’t no use tryin’ dat. I gotter study dis problem out an’ git dem bliss rags off!” He turned the boy around to take a comprehensive survey of the mystery. Then he found a button in the rear and undid it. The clothes fell off of little Ready Rocket like the last leaf off of a tree, leaving the limbs bare.

“Dar now!” Skeeter snickered. “Ain’t dat funny! Dis here is a one-button suit. You press de button an’ lo an’ beholes!”

He looked the tiny black-skinned chunk of humanity over. On Ready’s left arm he found an ugly scar.

“Looks like a fresh vaccinate mark to me,” he muttered. “I mighty nigh fergot whut Happy tole me ’bout dat sore arm.”

He brought a bright red stick of candy out of his pocket and placed it in Ready Rocket’s willing hand.

“Now, sonny,” he whispered. “You suck dat sugar-stick an’ fergit dat I is changin’ yo’ clothes. I cain’t handle dese city duds, but I knows how to put on little Shinny’s overalls an’ shirt beca’se I wore dem kind of drapery my own se’f.”

The little fellow murmured no complaint at the operation except when Skeeter momentarily separated his hand from his mouth and deprived him of his sugar-stick. But Skeeter quickly made the proper connection again, and when the child was dressed in little Shinny’s old clothes, Skeeter tossed the glad rags into a dark corner, lifted Ready in his arms, and carried him out on the street.

“Now, sonny,” he said, as he placed Ready on the ground, “us ’ll take a long, long walk!”

He started straight down the middle of the sandy road, the little boy trotting beside him sucking his candy. A quarter of a mile had been covered in this way when Ready Rocket dropped his candy.

“Ah-hah!” Skeeter said, as he picked up the sticky candy, wiped a little of the sand and dust off it, and stuck it back in Ready’s gaping mouth. “Dat’s a good sign—you is gittin’ tired an’ sleepy.”

They turned around and started back toward the saloon, Skeeter pressing the boy to walk as fast as he could. Half a dozen times in the return walk the little fellow dropped his candy and finally Skeeter grew tired of Ready’s carelessness. He merely picked up the sticky substance and helped Ready make connection with his mouth and hand, without taking the trouble to wipe off the dirt.

“Ef you git de colic eatin’ dat gorm of sugar an’ dirt, I hopes Shin Bone will hab you to wait on,” Skeeter remarked to his charge. “I ain’t got no expe’unce wid some yuther nigger’s stomick-ache.”

Within two blocks of the barroom, Ready’s little feet stopped like a clock with a broken spring. Skeeter dragged him for a few steps by the arm. Then he lifted the sleeping child, carried him to a ragged quilt in a corner of the rear room, and laid him down. The child’s tiny hand still clutched the muddy sugar-stick.

Skeeter entered the saloon and took his place behind the bar to wait for Shin Bone. He did not have long to wait, and when Shin Bone appeared Skeeter gasped, and his hand slipped to the little shelf under the bar where his automatic pistol rested.

Shin had been drinking heavily, but the liquor had not made him noisy. He was extremely quiet. He walked restlessly about the barroom with the prowling movements of a cat, careful not to make a noise with his feet as he staggered across the floor, answering if spoken to in a whisper, and glancing nervously around him all the time. The practised eyes of the negroes recognized the signs of danger. They knew Shin was out to kill. Some slipped away, and all the others became perfectly quiet. They knew that a loud laugh, the noise of an overturned chair, the breaking of a glass, the clatter of a stick falling to the floor, any of these things might start the drink-crazed negro to shooting. Shin had not only never been drunk before, but no one had ever seen him drinking. But now no jungle beast was more dangerous.

Finally Shin walked straight up to Skeeter and leaned against the bar.

“Skeeter, is you got my little boy?” he inquired in a low tone with exaggerated courtesy.

“Dar’s a little pickaninny sleepin’ on a quilt in de back room, Shin,” Skeeter answered uneasily.

“I wants him,” Shin remarked.

“He ain’t no kinnery of mine, Shin,” the barkeeper retorted. “Ever who owns him kin hab him.”

“Dis here sinful saloom ain’t no fitten place fer my angel chile,” Shin remarked in the same low, deadly tone.

“His maw axed me to keep him, Shin,” Skeeter said. “Of co’se, a daddy is got de fust right to his own baby an’ I’s jes’ tryin’ to be friends on bofe sides.”

“You ain’t no friend of mine,” Shin told him flatly. “I ain’t huntin’ no friends. I’s huntin’ revengeance!”

Shin walked away, muttering to himself.

Skeeter listened and heard Shin stumble across the floor in the rear room. With a loud grunt he stooped over the soiled quilt where Ready Rocket lay. With a louder grunt, he lifted the boy in his arms, and Skeeter heard him stagger to the door and close it quietly behind him.

A few minutes later Skeeter heard a loud wail down the street, and broke into a broad grin.

“I reckin Shin is done fell on Ready Rocket an’ squshed him; mebbe he’s done squoze Ready’s sore arm; mebbe Ready’s got de colics—I hopes so. I hopes all dem things is come to pass.”

About two hours after Shin Bone had taken his departure with little Ready Rocket, Mustard Prophet entered, looked around the barroom for a moment, then came over to Skeeter Butts, and inquired:

“Whar is Ready Rocket?”

“Gawd knows,” Skeeter replied. “He has went.”

“Happy Rocket sont me to fetch him home,” Mustard said. “She say it’s little Ready’s bedtime an’ he’ll git sleepy.”

“My stars an’ garters!” Skeeter exclaimed. “She don’t look fer dat brat home to-night, do she?”

“Suttinly. Whar is he at?”

Skeeter began to pant. He mopped the sweat from his forehead and looked around him desperately. His eyes lighted upon Pap Curtain.

“Come over dis way, Pap,” he called.

When Pap and Mustard stood side by side, Skeeter leaned over the bar and said earnestly:

“Pap, I want you an’ Mustard to keep bar fer me till I git back.”

“Dat suits us!” the two darkies chanted.

“I’ll tend to little Ready Rocket, Mustard,” Skeeter said as he reached for his derby hat.

As he passed out the two negroes looked at each other and grinned.

“Skeeter’s done kotch de mattermony germ agin,” Pap chuckled. “Tryin’ to hitch up wid Happy Rocket an’ her whelp. Lawd! Think of Skeeter marryin’ a widder an’ a ready-made fambly!”

Skeeter made a bee-line for Mustard Prophet’s cabin where Mrs. Happy Rocket could be found. But he had no matrimonial intentions.

“I jes’ drapped over to tell you ’bout little Ready Rocket, Happy,” Skeeter began as soon as he was seated. “Ready won’t be home to-night.”

“Won’t—which?” Happy’s voice was almost a scream.

“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.”

“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!”

“Huh,” Skeeter grunted. “You ack like a little nigger cub is wuth a millyum dollars!”

“Go git him!” Hopey howled.

“I don’t know whar he am!” Skeeter retorted. “Shin Bone swiped him!”

“You nachel-bawn, ignernunt fool!” Hopey screamed. “Shin ain’t run off nowheres! I passed de restaurant jes’ now an’ he wus settin’ in dar by hisse’f singin’ religium toons! Go git Ready!”

Skeeter shot out of the door and ran across the yard, but before he reached the street, Hopey bawled atter him:

“When dis nigger woman comes outen her fit, I’s gwine tell her all about dat plan you fixed up to make Shin steal her darlin’ chile—an’ she’ll pull yo’ hind leg off an’ beat yo’ brains out wid it!”

At the nearest corner Skeeter came to a quick stop.

“Ef Shin Bone is settin’ in his eatin’ house drunk an’ singin’ religium toons, it’s a shore sign he’d shoot me in a minute ef I tried to git dat Ready Rocket.”

He snatched off his hat, clawed at his thinly cropped hair, and sighed like the exhaust of a steamboat.

“Ain’t I in a awful mess?” he panted. “I done twisted an’ turned myse’f till I’s too crooked to walk through a tunnel—when I die dey’ll hab to bury me in a round hat box!”

He dropped down upon an old stump, and his nervous feet beat a tattoo upon the sandy soil.

“I never knowed womans wus so crazy about deir chillun befo’,” he exclaimed. “My mammy done los’ me out in de woods an’ Marse John Flournoy foun’ me in de swamp when I wus ’bout two year ole. He tole me I wus plum’ naked, jes’ crawlin’ aroun’ in de high marsh grass like a little lan’ tarrapin. Dat don’t look like nigger mammies loved deir brats. But den, dey done foun’ my mammy daid in anodder part of de swamp. But dese here moderm niggers—lawd, dey shore cherish spite!”

Suddenly a new thought galvanized him into action.

“Dat’s de idear!” he proclaimed, springing to the middle of the street and running at full speed. “I’ll ride out to de hog-camp in de Little Moccasin Swamp an’ make Whiffle Bone let me fotch back little Shinny to his real paw. Den I’ll get Shin Bone to swap brats wid me, an’ dat’ll make us even an’ end all dese troubles.”

He ran through the crooked lanes of Dirty-Six like a brown shadow, passed with unchecked speed through the portion of Tickfall occupied by the whites, and began to pant up the long hill on the summit of which stood the house of Sheriff John Flournoy.

Skeeter was perfectly at home here, for he lived in a cabin in the rear of Flournoy’s house, and had done just as he pleased about the place ever since Flournoy had found him in the swamp, a little naked baby crawling through the high marsh grass, mewing like a little blind kitten. He hurried around the house to the garage and opened the doors as noiselessly as he could. He had determined to use a little runabout which Flournoy kept for his fishing and hunting trips. In this machine he could go to the hog-camp, get Whiffle Bone’s baby, and return in a very short time.

He pushed the little runabout out of the garage, pushed it down the hill in the rear of the house, cranked it, sprang into the seat, and drove through a back pasture, out of a gate, and onto the rear street. He took one fearful look behind him and saw with gratification that no light had flashed up in Flournoy’s house to show that the occupants had been disturbed by his intrusion upon the property.

Skeeter shot through the white portion of the town, and turned into the lanes of Dirty-Six at a perilous speed. His dilapidated machine was rattling and squeaking a loud protest at every turn, but Skeeter did not heed the warning.

Then as Skeeter passed Pap Curtain’s house, a tire burst with a loud explosion, the runabout careened perilously, and before Skeeter could stop, it leaped from the road, crashed through Pap Curtain’s fence, and came to a halt within a few steps of Pap’s porch.

In the silence which followed, Skeeter heard a woman in Pap’s cabin whooping like a siren in a fog.

“Aw, shut up!” Skeeter snapped. “You ain’t in no danger. I’s de coon whut oughter be howlin’.”

He leaped out of the machine, snatched open the tool box, wrenched off an extra tire from the rear of the car and began to make repairs.

The door opened and Whiffle Bone stepped out upon the porch!

“Bless gracious, Whiffle!” Skeeter exclaimed in a glad voice, as he worked with furious haste adjusting his new tire. “I thought you wus out at de hog-camp. Whar is little Shinny Bone?”

This question started another series of howls, and Skeeter had his tire fitted and was ready to crank his car before Whiffle had calmed down to where she could answer.

“Little Shinny has went!” Whiffle screamed. “I decided not to go to de hog-camp beca’se it wus so fur. I tried to keep little Shinny hid in dis cabin. But Hopey Prophet an’ a nigger woman named Happy comed here jes’ now, an’ Happy blacked my eye an’ punched my face an’ hurt my feelin’s at some yuther places an’ took little Shinny Bone away. Dey said dey wus gwine keep him fer security till you fotch back Ready Rocket! I woulder follered ’em, but I wus skeart dey would kill me!”

“Dat’s good news, Whiffle!” Skeeter exclaimed as he cranked his car, and sprang into the seat. “Keep ca’m, an’ plug up de calliope! I’ll go git Ready Rocket an’ fetch little Shinny back in less’n a minute!”

“I’ll git little Shinny fust,” Skeeter decided as he shot down the street. He stopped his automobile a block away from Mustard Prophet’s house, ran down the street, and slipped into a little side yard by climbing the fence.

Hopey and Happy were in the kitchen, and Skeeter heard Hopey’s loud voice:

“’Tain’t no good fer you to howl, Happy. Skeeter will fotch back yo’ little boy as quick as he kin git him, an’ we done got dat yuther woman’s brat fer s’curity.”

’“Tain’t nothin’ like habin’ yo’ own chile!” Happy wailed.

“Hey!” Hopey bellowed. “Sup up dis hot tea now an’ stop blubberin’!”

Skeeter had heard enough to know that the women did not have the child in the kitchen with them. He stepped around the house, tiptoed up to the porch, and lo! the boy lay asleep upon the bed just inside of the open door.

“Dat gits me straight in dis bizzness,” Skeeter grinned, as he slipped into the room and lifted the sleeping child. “I’m shorely got de Lawd wid me dis time. Nobody cain’t git dis pickaninny away from me widout plenty compelment!”

He deposited Shinny in the machine, spun down the street to the Bone eating-house, and once more stopped his car a block away.

“Shin’s got killin’ on de brain,” he muttered. “I’s gwine spy aroun’ a little befo’ I crowds him too close.”

Shin Bone was seated alone in the middle of his restaurant which was lighted up like a circus. He was lining out a church hymn, singing it at the top of his voice, and beating the time with a large tin coffee pot. He had pounded the table with his tin pot until it was a certainty that it would never serve its original purpose again.

“I guess little Ready is sleepin’ in de back room,” Skeeter remarked, as he slipped around to the rear.

He entered the open door and found the child lying upon the bed which was usually occupied by Shin Bone’s real son. Carefully lifting the little fellow, Skeeter walked quickly down the street, grinning exultantly as he listened to Shin Bone’s raucous voice singing:

When young Ready lay beside Shin Bone’s boy in the automobile, Skeeter felt almost happy.

“It ’pears to me like I got dis job by de tail wid a downhill pull!” he exulted, as he started his machine and drove away from Dirty-Six with a lighter heart.

“I’se gwine take dese babies to my cabin,” he decided. “Dem squallin’ womans kin wait fer deir brats—dey don’t ’preciate whut I done fer ’em nohow. But Marse John might git peeved up ef he missed dis automobile an’ I cain’t affode to git in no lawsuit wid de cotehouse.”

Entering Sheriff John Flournoy’s yard, Skeeter Butts drove his little rattling runabout up the asphalt runway toward the garage in as nearly perfect silence as he could command.

Quickly he dismounted and pushed the little machine back where it belonged. Then he lifted the sleeping children out of the machine and started toward his own cabin.

Instantly a long shaft of white light shot across his path and he scampered out of the way, hiding behind some shrubbery which grew close to the house. He looked down the runway and his hair stood on end.

Flournoy’s big automobile was coming up the drive, its powerful light turning from side to side, illuminating every inch of the way. Skeeter did not know what moment a turn of the wheel would cause the light to flash across his body, so he slipped along the side of the house out to the front.

Alas! Standing at the front gate where she had just left the car was Mrs. Flournoy, and the electric light upon the corner made the front lawn as bright as day.

Skeeter noted that Mrs. Flournoy’s back was turned to him, so he scampered up the front steps and entered the front door just as Mrs. Flournoy turned to come up the walk.

Flournoy never thought of locking his house for the reason that half a dozen bloodhounds were running at large on his lawn all the time. For a moment, because of this fact, Skeeter had escaped observation. What to do next was his problem.

The house was perfectly familiar to Skeeter. He could have gone all over it with his eyes shut. And he was perfectly welcome there night and day, for he had been coming and going in that house for twenty-five years with no one to question his actions. But he had no desire to be caught in that house with two strange babies in his arms!

The front door opened and Mrs. Flournoy entered, snapping on the electric light in the reception-room. Skeeter retreated to the dining-rooms still hugging the two children in his wearying arms.

“Huh,” he muttered to himself. “Dese folks always gits somepin to eat befo’ dey goes to bed. I better git outen dis dinin’-room!”

He was just in time, too, for the doors to the dining-room slid open just as Skeeter stepped into a little back hall, which contained a narrow staircase leading to the second story. Skeeter tiptoed up the steps. His idea was to wait until the folks had entered the dining-room, then go down the front stairs, out of the front door and around to his cabin.

But luck was against him!

At the top of the steps he paused to rest his arms and get another grip upon the children he was carrying. He laid the boys side by side, took one under each arm like a bundle, and started on. Then it happened. He attempted to enter a narrow door and a little woolly nigger head hit the sharp edge of the door jamb on each side with a thump!

The two pickaninnies let out a howl which turned Skeeter’s blood to ice water.

Any effort toward concealment was useless now, and Skeeter was consumed with desire to get out of that house. He galloped down the front steps, turned into the rear hall, and stepped out upon a side porch.

Sheriff John Flournoy met him at the steps!

Flournoy turned the electric flashlight he had been using at the garage into Skeeter’s face, and the blinded, terrified darky reeled backward and dropped the two howling nigger babies upon the porch floor.

“Turn on the light, Skeeter!” Flournoy commanded.

Skeeter reached up above his head and switched on an electric light suspended from a cord.

Flournoy looked down at the howling nigger babies and grinned. He saw nothing unusual in the fact that Skeeter was coming out of his home at eleven o’clock at night, for Mrs. Flournoy had left Skeeter in charge of the house a thousand times in their absence. Nor did the two black babies excite anything more than amusement, for several negro families lived on his place and their cabins were full of children.

“Did you steal those nigger babies, Skeeter?” Flournoy drawled in his easy, smiling way. The remark was merely to make talk.

“Naw, suh,” Skeeter stammered. “Naw, suh!”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Flournoy chuckled. “Since the Lamana kidnaping case, the Legislature has passed a law making the penalty for stealing children very severe in Louisiana.”

Skeeter attempted to moisten his parched lips with a dry tongue. Then he asked through jaws which felt like they were locked:

“Whut—whut—whut am de penalty, Marse John?”

“Death!” the sheriff answered.

Then an oath of surprise popped from his throat. Skeeter had crumpled like a broken weed and had fallen face downward between the two squalling black babies.

Flournoy leaped forward and turned the prostrate man over on his back.

The negro had fainted.

Mrs. Flournoy appeared upon the side porch and quieted the babies by the simple process of giving each of them a piece of fried chicken.

Sheriff Flournoy as quickly restored Skeeter to consciousness by pouring cold water on his head and hot liquor down his throat.

Then leaving the babies to play under the electric light upon the porch, they conducted Skeeter to the kitchen and demanded explanations.

Nobody can beat a negro making explanations.

Skeeter’s statement was utterly untrue, but when we remember that the frightened darky considered that he had been guilty of the crime of kidnaping and was hopefully attempting to save himself from the penalty of death, all kind-hearted persons will forgive him. Most of us would stretch the blanket just a little if by doing so we could save our lives.

“It happened dis way, Marse John,” Skeeter said in a trembling voice. “I wus givin’ dem two little black babies a little outin’, an’ I decided I would fotch ’em up here an’ let ’em see whar I lived at. I’s proud of dat little cabin whut you-all gib me, even ef I do say it myse’f. I ain’t been feelin’ so powerful well sence ’bout supper-time to-night—it muss had been somepin I et—an’ passin’ de house I got to feelin’ powerful bad, an’ I decided I would git me some medicine. I knowed you-all warn’t at home, but de med’cine chist is right up-stairs whar it’s been fer twenty year, so I wint up dar to git me some linimint to rub on my misery. When I heerd the auto come in, I comed down to ax Ole Miss whut to take, an’ when I wus talkin’ to you on de po’ch somepin jes’ nachelly happened!”

This sounded perfectly plausible to Skeeter’s two white friends who did not have the least hint of the mess he had mixed down in the negro settlement.

“You’d better go to bed, Skeeter,” Flournoy said kindly. “I’ve seen niggers pull many different stunts in my life, but you are the only darky I ever saw all in a dead faint.”

“I been feelin’ kinder faint an’ feeble fer a good while,” Skeeter moaned.

“I’ll give you some pills to take, Skeeter,” Mrs. Flournoy said. “Go to your cabin, and if you are not better in the morning we’ll have the doctor.”

Skeeter turned to her pleadingly.

“Whut is I gwine do wid dem two nigger babies?” he asked. “I bet deir maws is bellerin’ fer ’em right now like cows callin’ fer deir calves.”

“Do you feel strong enough to drive my little runabout, Skeeter?” Flournoy asked. “You can take the babies home in that.”

“Yes, suh,” Skeeter exclaimed eagerly. “I’s strong enough to run it an’ de fresh air will do me good.”

Flournoy pushed out the little machine, helped Skeeter arrange the children so they would not tumble out, cranked the car for the “sick” negro, and for the second time that night the sheriff’s little runabout started for Dirty-Six.

In the meantime things had been happening in that negro settlement. The grapevine telephone carried the news that Shin Bone had stolen Happy Rocket’s baby. A little later the message ran along the same mysterious channel that Happy Rocket had stolen Shin Bone’s baby. Then the startling information came that some party or parties unknown had stolen Shin Bone’s baby out of Happy Rocket’s cabin.

This was enough to bring the entire population of Dirty-Six out of their cabins into the street. They streamed up and down the narrow lanes, jabbering, gesticulating, telling again and again of the fight between Whiffle Bone and Happy Rocket, of the divorce of Shin and Whiffle, of the drunken spree of Shin Bone.

The general idea prevailed that Shin Bone had possession of both babies, but no one cared to go and inquire while Shin was crazy drunk, singing “heavy religion” songs, and pounding the table with a tin coffee pot.

Then Whiffle Bone caused a sensation by leaving her uncle Pap Curtain’s cabin and running down the street toward the Bone eating-house squalling like a catamount. Dozens of negroes fell into her wake and followed at a safe distance.

As they approached the restaurant they all recognized with pleasure that Shin Bone was sobering up. The best indication of this improvement was the character of songs he was singing. He had abandoned the heavy religion tunes, his voice had lost some of its volume, and the music was gay and lightsome:

Whiffle Bone threw open the door of the eating-house, ran across the sanded floor, threw herself into Shin Bone’s outstretched arms, and broke into his song with a loud wail:

“O Shin, I loves you wid all my heart! Less don’t fuss no more—I’ll ’vide up de money even! An’ fer Gawd’s sake, come an’ he’p me find little Shinny, our darlin’, angel chile!”

“Don’t pester yo’ mind ’bout our angel chile,” Shin Bone vociferated, pounding the table with the battered coffee pot. “I fotch him home from de Hen-Scratch—he layin’ in de back room in his own little bed!”

Placing his coffee pot under his arm, he led his sobbing, hysterical wife into the back room and then stood gazing in pop-eyed, drunken amazement at the empty bed.

“Whar is he at? Oh, whar is he at?” Whiffle screamed.

“I—I thought I toted him home, Whiffle!” Shin Bone said in a hysterical tone. “I wonder did I drap him down a well—or somepin like dat?”

This suggestion threw Whiffle into a maniacal frenzy and administered such a shock to Shin Bone that it sobered him completely in a moment.

“Come on, squall-cat!” he bellowed. “Less go to de Hen-Scratch an’ ax Skeeter Butts ’bout dis!”

When they arrived at the saloon they found a dense crowd of negroes within the place listening to the whoops and howls of Happy Rocket and Hopey Prophet, both of whom had also come to the saloon to interrogate Skeeter Butts.

When Shin and his wife entered they occupied the opposite end of the barroom, and then began an antiphonal chorus between the two bereaved parties which was better as a show to the bystanders than a zoo full of ring-tailed monkeys.

Finally all their wails became focalized into one hysterical appeal:

“Where, oh, where is Skeeter Butts gone at?”

When Skeeter spun around the corner and looked up the street at the crowd assembled around his place of business, he availed himself of benefits of that intolerable nuisance called the muffler cut-out, and drew up to his saloon and stopped his car, popping like a battle of rapid-fire guns.

A man-sized voice at the door bawled the information to the people in the saloon:

“Here comes Skeeter Butts in Sheriff John Flournoy’s ought-to-be-a-mule!” A moment later he bawled another announcement: “Skeeter’s got the two lost babies wid him!”

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.

“My Gawd, Shin!” Skeeter exclaimed with all the dramatic force of his nature. “Marse John says he ain’t had to hang no nigger sence he’s been a sheriff, but de law specifies dat de penalty fer stealin’ a baby is death!”

If Skeeter hoped to make a sensation, he did!

Whiffle Bone threw her arms around her husband’s neck and sobbed as if he were already dead.

Happy Rocket dropped upon her knees upon the barroom floor, raised her quivering hands in an attitude of prayer and sobbed:

“O mussiful Gawd! I’s a mean, wuthless nigger an’ I ain’t prepared to die!”

“Looky here, Skeeter!” Shin Bone howled in a desperate, frightened voice. “Didn’t you steal dem babies yo’ own se’f? How come you is got ’em wid you ef you didn’t steal ’em?”

“Naw, suh!” Skeeter Butts squealed. “I attached dem chillun in de name of de law an’ de sheriff an’ de Nunited States of Loozanny!”

Then Shin Bone broke down and howled:

“Gimme my baby! Me an’ Whiffle is gwine leave dis town till atter de gram-jury meets!”

“Take him!” Skeeter exclaimed. “I don’t want him—I’d druther hab a yeller-jacket under my shirt. Jes’ take yo’ brat an’ go!”

“Gimme my baby!” Happy screamed. “I’se gwine back home to-night on de fust train!”

“Honey, don’t let nothin’ detain you!” Skeeter admonished her. “I don’t want yo’ baby—I’d druther hab a cockle-bur in my sock. Jes’ take yo’ brat an’ go!”

In a few minutes the barroom was empty, the crowd splitting into two parts, following either Happy Rocket or Shin Bone home, according to their sympathies.

In the middle of the floor Skeeter found a tin coffee pot. It was battered, broken, and useless, and one side was caved in until it resembled a big, toothless mouth grinning at him in sardonic glee. He bent over it, examined it from all sides, but did not touch it. The mishaps of the night had made him cowardly.

“Nigger luck is always bad luck,” he whispered. “Dis here tin pot might be a bomb an’ bust right in my face. I’ll let Little Bit pick it up when be cleans up in de mawnin’. All dis night bad luck has kotch me befo an’ behime—mostly behime.”

Skeeter sat down to rest his mind and collect his impressions. He was not the jaunty, confident, debonair young man he had been a few hours before. He felt like something had gone out of him, fading like breath upon a razor, leaving him but a shell of his former self, never to recover what he had lost and be the same again.

Tears of weakness and nervous collapse came into his eyes and rolled down his cheeks to the corners of his mouth. He wiped them away with the palm of his yellow hand and spoke again:

“One time when I wus little I axed Marse John Flournoy whar I come from. He tole me dat a buzzard laid me an’ de debbil hatched me in de hot ashes. I don’t misdoubt dem words, because I been ketchin’ hell ever since!”