More E. K. Means / Is This a Title? It Is Not. It Is the Name of a Writer of Negro Stories, Who Has Made Himself So Completely the Writer of Negro Stories That This Second Book, Like the First, Needs No Title

The song ended in a howl of fright.

Tick Hush came to a stand with both hands outstretched to ward off the attack of a girl who stood in the middle of the moonlit road with a shotgun at her shoulder.

“Git ready to die, Ticky!” she snarled. “Dis am de end of you!”

Then both barrels of the gun went off at about the same time.

Tick went off, too.

Fortunately for Tick, Button Hook was not familiar with the use of firearms. She had heard her father say that his old shotgun kicked like a yearling mule. She was afraid of the gun, afraid of the noise it made, and afraid of the kick. She had held it far from her shoulder to avoid the rebound, had shut both her eyes, and pulled both triggers. When the gun went off she dropped it on the ground, and went home at full speed, squalling at every step.

Tick leaped to one side of the road, tore both legs off his pantaloons at the knee clambering over a barbed-wire fence, and went howling through the woods, bumping against nearly every tree in his flight.

Like a crawfish, Tick went forward and looked back.

When at last he felt that he had escaped from danger, he was bleeding from a number of wounds on his head, bleeding at both knees, bleeding where the barbed-wire had cut his lips, and his nose was a spouting fountain of red.

“I’ll go ax Skeeter Butts ’bout dis,” the wretched man moaned.

When he staggered into the Hen-Scratch saloon he made a big sensation. Negroes were standing at the bar, others were playing pool, some were engaged at various games at the table, and a big group was assembled in the center of the room singing, cracking jokes, and laughing as they smoked. The crowd sprang up and rushed forward as Tick stumbled in, sobbing like a little child.

“My Gawd, niggers!” he howled. “Marse Tom is got to git him anodder nigger. Dis’n is plum’ ruint. Send fer de dorctor! I’s been helt up an’ robbed an’ shotted to death!”

X
TICK SEEKS A PLACE TO DIE

Tick flopped over on a battered pool-table, and dyed the green cloth red with his blood.

A bunch of negroes gathered close around the table, cackling their comments like a flock of excited hens.

“I heerd dat gun go off!” Figger Bush squeaked. “Dey shot him twicet. Dat gun went bang! bang!”

“Us heerd it, too,” Hitch Diamond growled. “He shore is bad hurted. Dey shot bofe de legs off his pants. I ’speck he fixin’ to die!”

Skeeter Butts talked excitedly over the telephone and five minutes later a big automobile stopped in front of his place, and Dr. Moseley came in.

“Get all these niggers out of here, Skeeter!” he commanded sharply. “Clear the house!”

The negroes tramped out of the door like a drove of horses going through a gap, and then they scattered to all parts of the town to carry the dreadful news.

Dr. Moseley’s examination failed to find a single gunshot wound.

“You are not shot, Tick,” Moseley said. “You’ve been lying to these friends of yours. Somebody beat you over the head with a club.”

“Naw, suh; dat warn’t it, doc,” Tick insisted. “I wus shotted wid bofe barrels of a shotgun!”

“Tick don’t know whut happened, doc,” Skeeter commented. “He come in here ’bout a hour ago so full of booze dat he sloshed like a water-wagon when he walked.”

Moseley bandaged the cut lips and legs and the bruised head, and left Tick to the care and nursing of Skeeter Butts.

“Yes, suh; I’ll set up wid him all night, doc,” Skeeter said. “He’s a fool frien’ of mine.”

Skeeter was aching to know exactly what had happened to Tick, and as soon as the physician left, Tick was served with a drink which sobered him almost immediately, and then he told Skeeter all about his affair in the road.

When Tick had finished, Skeeter sat for a long time in deep thought, at intervals grunting like a pig when some new idea punched him in a new place.

At last he rose to his feet and got his hat.

“Ticky,” he said, “you stay here till I gits back.”

“Suttinly,” Tick said pitifully. “I’s skeart to go anywhar else; lock all de doors up tight.”

Skeeter ran across lots to his home on the premises of Sheriff John Flournoy.

Flournoy had a little automobile, which he used for fishing and hunting trips, and Skeeter pushed this out of the garage, cranked it, and jumped to the seat. In a few minutes he was back again at the saloon.

“Climb in dis machine, Ticky,” he commanded. “A leetle fresh air will rest yo’ mind an’ do you good. Git in!”

Then Skeeter steered the machine straight toward the home of Button Hook. Tick uttered angry and frightened protests, but in vain. Skeeter persisted in his plan.

“Dis is whar it happened, Skeeter,” Tick said as they passed a place in the road. “Dis is whar I wus shotted!”

“Whoa!” Skeeter said, as he brought the car to a stop. “Look dar—dat is de gun whut Button drapped!”

Placing the gun in the machine, Skeeter hurried on toward Button Hook’s home.

“Dis gun will he’p me a heap!” he exulted.

When they reached the house, Skeeter picked up the shotgun and, leaving Tick in the machine, he walked through the yard, stamped up the steps and onto the little porch, and knocked loudly and authoritatively upon the door. He heard shuffling noises with low talking, and movements which indicated that the occupants of the house were waking from sleep and getting out of bed.

“Who dar?” old man Hook inquired in a frightened voice.

“Open up!” Skeeter yelled. “I got a little word wid you an’ Button Hook from Sheriff John Flournoy an’ Doc Moseley.”

At this there was a frightened squeal from Button Hook, excited voices talking, swift movement of feet, and the door opened a little crack. Old Hook stuck his corkscrew whiskers through the opening and asked:

“Whut word is sont?”

“I’s got Ticky Hush out here in Sheriff John Flournoy’s autermobile,” Skeeter announced in a loud voice. “Ticky is been shot two times wid a double-barrel, muzzle-loadin’ shotgun. Nobody ain’t know who done it, but we done foun’ de shotgun, an’ Marse Tom is tryin’ to find out who owns it.”

Button Hook uttered a frightened whine.

“Doc Moseley say Ticky is gittin’ ready to die befo’ mawnin’,” Skeeter resumed. “Ticky ain’t got no kinnery an’ I knowed he wus gwine marry Button Hook, so I fetch him down here so he could die in yo’-all’s house!”

“Gawda’mighty, naw!” old Hook wailed. “I don’t want no dead nigger in my cabin. Take him somewheres else.”

“It’s Marse John Flournoy’s awders to leave him here wid you-alls!” Skeeter lied.

“Naw!” Daddy Hook squalled. “Dis fambly ain’t gwine be home in de mawnin’—us is gittin’ ready trabble to right now, an’ we’s fixin’ to take a soon start!”

“Does you know who dis shotgun belongs to?” Skeeter asked, producing the gun with a dramatic flourish.

“Naw!” Daddy Hook wailed, motioning Skeeter away. “Ain’t never seed dat gun befo’.”

A frightened wail sounded behind old man Hook, informing Skeeter that Button was being strongly affected by what she heard.

“All right!” Skeeter said, as if in doubt what to do next. “I’ll go tell Marse John Flournoy dat you-all won’t take Tick in. I reckon him an’ Marse Tom Gaitskill will come right down an’ cornverse you-all about it. De Sheriff don’t take no nigger foolishness.”

Skeeter turned and walked away. When he got to the automobile it was empty. Tick had climbed out and had hidden behind the same stump which had served him when he delivered the wrist-watch to Button Hook. As Skeeter cranked the machine, Tick emerged from his hiding-place and climbed back into the car.

“Now, Ticky,” Skeeter said when they were once more in the saloon and had sat down. “A long time befo’ mawnin’, Button Hook an’ all dat crowd will be gittin’ to some place fur away in a mighty big hurry. Dey’ll trabble wid a looseness, an’ dey won’t look back, an’ dey won’t never come back.”

“Dey won’t make me mad ef dey stays away,” Tick spoke, trying to grin through his cut and plaster-covered lips.

“Dat saves yo’ life, an’ it gits you good riddunce of one of yo’ to-be wives!”

“Thank ’e, suh,” Tick said gratefully. “You shore is a noble nigger man!”

“You tole me dat Dazzle promise to marry you—is dat so?”

“Naw, suh. Me an’ Dazzle et a little dinner togedder, but dar ain’t nothin’ to dat.”

“Dat leaves jes’ Limit Lark fer you to marry—ain’t dat so?” Skeeter asked.

“Dat’s all!” Tick said. “Thank de Lawd!”

“You done got yo’ license to marry Limit, Ticky,” Skeeter said. “Now, fer goodness sake don’t ax nobody else!”

“I won’t,” Tick promised. “I’s mighty glad we’s done shaved ’em down to jes’ me an’ one woman.”

There was a loud knock upon the front door, and some one on the outside shook it violently, trying to get in.

“Git over dar an’ crawl under de bar, Ticky,” Skeeter whispered. “Dar ain’t no tellin’ whut is gwine happen now!”

When Tick was hidden, Skeeter tiptoed to the door and opened it very cautiously.

“Dis here is Vakey Vapp,” a woman’s voice announced in high, shrill tones. “Lemme in, I got somepin to say offen my mind!”

“Come in, Vakey,” Skeeter said in propitiating tones. “I’s de onliest one here.”

“Whar is Tick Hush?” Vakey snapped.

“Tick is gittin’ ready to die,” Skeeter answered evasively. “Doc Moseley is he’pin’ him along.”

“I come here to tell Tick dat he better make a good job of dyin’, an’ drap off real soon,” Vakey bellowed. “Ef he don’t, I’s gwine meet him in de big road an’ cyarve his gizzard an’ his backbone out!”

“Whut’s done made you mad?” Skeeter asked in surprised tones.

“Dat nigger is done monkeyed wid my affectations,” Vakey howled.

“Dat’s too bad,” Skeeter sympathized.

“It don’t hurt me none, but it’s shore bad fer Tick!” Vakey said in a deadly tone.

Then they sat for a long time in silence, while Vakey Vapp breathed deeply with a heaving breast, like a motion-picture star. At last she stood up to go.

“I comed here to gib Ticky Hush a dyin’ message, Skeeter,” she announced. “I’s sorry he ain’t here. But ef Doc Moseley makes a mistake an’ cures Tick, well, I’s gwine bestow my dyin’ message wid de edge of a sharp razor. Good-by!”

When the door closed behind her, Tick stood up from his hiding-place, showing a face full of tragedy and despair.

“We forgot all about dat one, Skeeter,” he mourned. “Oh, lawdy! Ef I ever gits outen dis mess, I ain’t gwine mess wid mattermony no more!”

XI
TICK FLIES THE YELLOW FLAG

Early the next morning, Colonel Tom Gaitskill heard from Hitch Diamond, who worked about his place, that Tick Hush had been held up, robbed, and shot to death.

At the bank, where Vinegar Atts worked, Gaitskill heard that a woman named Button Hook had shot Tick Hush, and that Skeeter had nursed him all night.

From Dr. Moseley Gaitskill learned that Tick had not been shot or robbed, but had been beaten over the head with some blunt instrument, and his face had been badly cut with some sharp tool.

All of which was interesting enough to induce Gaitskill to make a personal investigation.

He found Tick Hush lying upon a pallet in the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon, and from him and Skeeter Butts he heard the whole story.

Being familiar with the details of numberless negro courtships, this lengthy narrative lacked the spice of novelty, and Gaitskill was weary long before it was finished.

At last he looked at his watch and rose to his feet.

“Well, Tick,” he smiled, “I think if I were in your predicament I would go out to the pest-house on my farm and run up the yellow flag.”

Then Gaitskill went back to the bank.

The two negroes sat in perfect silence for a long time. Finally Tick asked:

“Skeeter, whut did Marse Tom mean by dem words?”

“Gawd knows,” Skeeter mumbled.

Skeeter smoked four cigarettes in rapid succession. Then the meaning of Gaitskill’s remark shot through him like an electric current.

Given Gaitskill’s two, he multiplied and made forty-four.

He grabbed his hat and ran up the street at full speed.

He stopped first at the home of Ginny Babe Chew, where he held an excited conversation with Dazzle Zenor, the actress. That young woman laughed and applauded, and promptly left the house after Skeeter’s rapid departure.

After that, he ran to the livery stable and held an excited conversation with the negro owner of that establishment.

The liveryman was not at all disposed to do what Skeeter wanted, but Skeeter had learned certain conjuring tricks to attain his ends, and he now performed these tricks with the influential names of Colonel Tom Gaitskill, Sheriff John Flournoy, and Dr. Moseley.

With these big names thundering in his ears, the liveryman consented.

“Keep dis quiet, Lon!” Skeeter warned. “It’s de white folks’ awders. Don’t speak a word!”

Two hours later, a long, black carriage, known to the negroes of Tickfall as the “pest-wagon,” drawn by two solemn mules and driven by Skeeter Butts, stopped at the rear door of the Hen-Scratch saloon.

Skeeter dismounted from the driver’s seat and opened the door in the rear of the ambulance. Hitch Diamond, Figger Bush, and the Reverend Vinegar Atts climbed out. They pulled a stretcher into view, and Skeeter laid hold upon it.

They tramped into the Hen-Scratch saloon like a quartette of pall-bearers, and walked to the pallet where Dazzle Zenor, the actress, now acting the part of a Red Cross nurse, had just completed a major operation upon the face and hands of Tick Hush. Tick was lifted upon the stretcher, carried to the ambulance and placed inside.

Skeeter tied a piece of yellow cloth a yard wide and two yards long to the door knob of the ambulance, and climbed back to the driver’s seat.

The four stretcher bearers walked solemnly beside the pest-wagon.

Every negro inhabitant of Dirty-Six crowded the sidewalks and watched this dreadful wagon go by. All the older ones recalled that fearful epidemic of yellow fever years before when this wagon had rolled along the streets at midnight, and a driver with muffled mouth, breathing through a cloth saturated with disinfectants, called aloud in sepulchral tones:

“Bring out your dead!”

For the first time in thirty years, the pest-wagon was on the streets of Tickfall again. It was no longer a shiny, black vehicle, but was rusty, dusty, weather-beaten, and time-worn, more than ever suggestive of diseases and pestilence and sudden death.

As the stretcher bearers marched, they sang. The superb baritone of the Reverend Vinegar Atts rolled like an organ:

“Git back, niggers!” Hitch Diamond bellowed to the crowd when he saw they were disposed to follow. “Keep away! I got awders from de white folks!”

In front of the home of Vakey Vapp the ambulance came to a stop.

“Come out here, Vakey!” Skeeter called.

Vakey stepped out into the middle of her yard with plenty of fresh, untainted air around her.

“You tole me las’ night dat you wanted to deliver to Tick Hush a dyin’ message!” Skeeter exclaimed as he opened the door of the ambulance. “Come up close so you kin speak to him!”

Vakey took a half-step forward and stopped.

Skeeter spread wide the doors of the ambulance and exclaimed dramatically:

“Stick out yo’ head, Ticky, an’ git yo’ dyin’ word!”

Ticky stuck out his head.

Dazzle Zenor had done her work well.

The actress had exhausted all her paints and all her mental resources in helping Tick in his theatrical make-up for the part he had to play.

The result was simply horrifying!

Tick’s ears were both a bright green in color, his nose was yellow, his lips were purple, his forehead was a bright red, and his cheeks were as white as milk, while under his chin the natural brown of his skin was striped with orange!

Tick held up both hands with a pitiful gesture, and each finger was a different color!

Vakey Vapp emitted a squall which put her in a class by herself as a maker of strange, loud noises.

“Pore ole Ticky is got some kind of ketchin’ disease, Vakey,” Skeeter exclaimed. “Us is takin’ him out to de pest-house.”

“Whut ails him?” Vakey wailed.

“Doc Moseley specify dat Tick is got scrambaloodums, an’ it’s powerful ketchin’. Is you touched Ticky any time recent?”

“O Lawd yes!” Vakey screamed. “I rush-housed him powerful bad at de Shoofly chu’ch de yuther night!”

“I’s mighty sorry to hear you speak dem words, Vakey,” Skeeter said with a tearful tremolo in his voice. “You’ll kotch de scrambaloodums, too. We’ll come back an’ take you to de pest-house next!”

Skeeter shut the ambulance door and ostentatiously draped the yellow flag over the knob.

“You fergot to deliver yo’ dyin’ message, Vakey,” Skeeter reminded her.

“’Tain’t nothin’,” Vakey howled. “O my lawdymussy!”

“All right,” Skeeter said. “You kin speak yo’ dyin’ words when we takes you out to de pest-house whar Tick is gwine!”

Vakey gave another loud squall and started across the fields toward the woods, going at full speed, and covering a long distance in a very brief time.

“She’ll be mighty fur away pretty soon—ef she keeps up dat gait,” the Reverend Vinegar Atts chuckled. “Dat’s jes’ de way de niggers runned from de pest-house thirty years ago!”

Skeeter clucked to his mules and started off at a brisk trot, leaving the three other stretcher bearers in the middle of the road, looking at the cloud of dust the team raised.

“Come on, niggers,” Vinegar Atts chuckled as he turned back toward the town. “We done runned Vakey off now—less git aroun’ among de niggers an’ succulate de repote dat Skeeter an’ Tick is gittin’ ready to git up a show!”

“Dat’s right!” Figger Bush cackled. “We’ll tell ’em dis ain’t no real disease, but Tick an’ Skeeter is rehearsin’!”

“’Tain’t really needful to do dat,” Hitch Diamond rumbled. “Excusin’ Vakey, all of ’em knows it ’tain’t nothin’ but a joke nohow. Niggers didn’t sing no religium tunes aroun’ dis pest-wagon thuty year ago when de yeller fever kotch us.”

XII
LIMIT GOES THE LIMIT

Two hours later, a wagon drawn by two mules, and occupied by three men and one woman, stopped on top of a hill near the pest-house.

With shouts of laughter the four colored people looked down at the four-room stone house with the metal roof, behind which were many graves and leaning tombstones.

In front of the building was a yellow flag, draped from the limb of a small tree. Skeeter Butts sat in front, his chair-back propped against the stone wall, smoking his cigarette.

They climbed out of the wagon, Limit Lark, the Reverend Vinegar Atts, Figger Bush, and Hitch Diamond.

After consulting with his two male companions, Vinegar Atts conducted Limit Lark to a little knoll about one hundred feet from the pest-house, and told her to stand there until he could complete his arrangements.

Then he took his own stand on another little rise of land, with Figger Bush and Hitch Diamond beside him.

“Hey, Tick Hush!” Vinegar bawled in a voice which could be heard a mile. “Come out to de front of de pest-house a minute!”

Tick had been busy trying to get the make-up off his face, and he emerged from the building and stared about him in surprise.

“Listen, Tick!” Vinegar Atts whooped. “I got somepin to say to you. Will you take Limit Lark to be yo’ wedded wife?”

“Suttinly!” Tick squalled, after a moment of astonished silence and a kick from Skeeter Butts.

“Limit, will you take Tick Hush to be yo’ wedded husbunt?” Vinegar bellowed.

“You bet!” Limit shrieked.

“Jine yo’ right hands!” Vinegar howled.

“Aw, dat won’t do to say,” Hitch Diamond growled. “It cain’t be did.”

Vinegar hesitated a moment, then got his second wind and bawled:

“I now pernounce you husbunt an’ wife, an’ may de good Lawd hab mussy on yo’ souls. Amen!”

“Come away from dis pest-house, Tick!” Skeeter snapped as soon as the ceremony was ended. “I been skeart to death fer eve’y minute I been here, an’ I’s smoked cigareetes to keep de ketchin’ miseries away till I sees double!”

The two men ran up the hill toward Limit Lark.

Limit took one horrified look at her husband’s face and reeled backward.

Dazzle Zenor had failed to tell Tick how to get the make-up off his face, and now he was an awful looking thing.

He had rubbed the various paints with a dry cloth and had made a horrifying smear; he had washed the paints with hot and cold water, and some of the colors had “run,” and the effect was one which would make any alcoholic imagine he had ’em again and mount the water-wagon.

“My Gawd, Ticky!” Limit shrieked. “How come you got yo’ face in such a devilish mess?”

“I’s had bad luck, honey,” Tick said mournfully. “I s’pose I got to wait till dis paint wears off!”

“You ain’t nothin’ but a gorm!” Limit shrieked. “You look like a Whut-is-it in a circus show!”

“Cain’t he’p it, honey,” Tick replied. “It’ll wear off in about six months!”

“Dat’s right!” Vinegar Atts howled. “Marse Tom Gaitskill sent word by me dat you two niggers is in quaremtime fer six months. Ef you or Limit comes to town, he’ll hab you put in de jailhouse.”

“Limit kin wear a blind bridle till you git yo’ nachel-bawn color back, Ticky,” Skeeter snickered. “Good-by!”

The four stretcher bearers left the bride and groom and walked up the hill to where their mules were standing.

When Skeeter picked up his driving lines he broke into a loud cackle of laughter.

“Say, fellers,” he snickered. “Ain’t dat Tick Hush a funny nigger man? Ef you wus to set him in one of dese here revolvin’ chairs, he wouldn’t hab sense enough to turn aroun’.”

A Corner in Pickaninnies

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: