Tick Hush looked like a negro who would work like a horse, and who would do as he was told.

Colonel Tom Gaitskill leaned back in his swivel chair for a comprehensive survey of this new applicant for a job.

He saw a brown-skinned man, with a big round head, a flat nose, heavy lips that were easy-smiling, and eyes which were as wide-open, as simple and innocent as the black, glass eyes of a china doll. He noticed that the man stood perfectly straight, without nervousness, and that his big hands were hard and square—the hands of a willing worker.

“I don’t know nothin’ but how to wuck de lan’, Marse Tom,” Tick told him. “Farmin’ is my trade. So when I heerd tell dat you done bought dat farm whar de ole pest-house was located at, I figgered dat dis wus a chance to git me a good job wid a good boss.”

The speech won Gaitskill’s favor. Negroes are afraid of hospitals, quarantine stations, and graveyards. He had had difficulty in securing a negro tenant for this newly acquired farm because the pest-house occupied a portion of the plantation.

“Aren’t you afraid of that farm, Tick?” Gaitskill smiled.

“Naw, suh,” Tick chuckled. “De cullud folks orate ’bout all dem bad ketchin’ diseases in de pest-house, but I ain’t gwine pester aroun’ in dat neighborhood none.”

Gaitskill determined to test the negro’s sincerity once for all.

“Think of the people who have died out there, Tick,” he said. “When I was a boy there was an epidemic of cholera, and the people died in that old stone house like flies. After that there was yellow fever, and nobody who was taken into that house for quarantine ever came out alive. There have been epidemics of diphtheria, scarlet fever, and smallpox. People are buried all around that quarantine station—you mean to tell me that you are not afraid?”

“Naw, suh, I ain’t skeart,” Tick grinned. “Dem folks is all been dead so long dey done fergot whut dey died of. Dem bad ketchin’ diseases is done kotch on to somebody else by dis time an’ been toted away. Of co’se, I ain’t gwine dig fer no buried money aroun’ dat spot.”

“I’m sure of that,” Gaitskill told him.

“An’ I don’t figger on havin’ much comp’ny out dar,” Tick chuckled. “Niggers ain’t gwine make my place no hangout. Ef I got inter real bad trouble, I might could hide in dat pest-house—nobody ain’t comin’ dar atter me.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Gaitskill smiled. “But I will not object if your idle, loafing friends stay away. At the same time, I presume you will often be lonesome—are you married?”

“Naw, suh.”

Gaitskill leaned back in his chair and tapped the top of the table with the rubber of his pencil.

“Why haven’t you married, Tick?” he inquired.

“Cain’t affode it, Marse Tom.”

“How do you know you can’t?” Gaitskill asked curiously.

“I figgered dat all out once, boss,” Tick grinned. “I wus wuckin’ as a wage-han’ on de Coon-Skin plantation. I tuck a notion I wus qualified to take a wife, I wus shore I could git one, but I warn’t shore I could suppote her.”

“How did you decide that matter?” Gaitskill asked.

“I wus doin’ my own cookin’ an’ livin’ in a cabin by myse’f alone, so I fixed up a way to try it out. I sot two plates at de table. Eve’y time I et a biskit, I sot a biskit on dat yuther plate. Eve’y time I he’ped myse’f to a b’ilin’ of greens, I put some on dat yuther plate. Eve’y time I wanted a corn pone, I baked two in de hot ash, and’ throwed one of ’em out to my houn’ dawg. At de eend of de month I counted up my money whut wus lef’ over, an’—my Gawd, boss—it shore cain’t be did by me. Keepin’ a wife is too blame expenshus.”

Gaitskill pulled his heavy silken mustache down over his mouth to hide his widely smiling lips. Thus disheveled, he resembled a venerable walrus with an amiable disposition. After a while he spoke.

“I want a married man for the quarantine plantation, Tick. There is a good house on the other side of the farm from the pest-house, and there is ample accommodation for cows, chickens, and hogs. There’s a good garden plot and a number of fruit trees. An unmarried man won’t attend to these things, and I want some one who will keep the place up.”

“Dat’s powerful bad news, Marse Tom,” Tick replied as he took a step backward toward the door. “I suttinly had my whole insides sot on gittin’ charge of dat plantation. Yes, suh.”

Gaitskill sat waiting, confidently anticipating Tick’s next remark. The colored man’s mental processes were slow, but at last he arrived.

“Mebbe I might could git me a wife, Marse Tom,” he suggested.

“That’s the very idea I had in mind,” Gaitskill smiled. “If you promise to get married within the next two weeks, I’ll locate you on the pest-house plantation for the next five years.”

“Mebbe no woman won’t take no ole tough gizzard like me,” Tick remarked with humility.

“That’s up to you,” Gaitskill laughed. “I think if you will emphasize the fact that you are getting the management of a good farm, a good house, plenty of fruit, a number of cows, chickens, and a good garden, and the woman is sure that you will put as much on her plate as you do on your own—well, try it, anyway.”

“I’ll shore try it on,” the negro answered with ludicrous solemnity as he turned and started out of the door.

“And, listen, Tick!” Gaitskill exclaimed as he turned to pick up some papers on his desk and resume his interrupted work. “If you find a woman who is willing to marry you, let me know, and I’ll furnish the marriage license—it won’t cost you a cent!”

“Thank ’e, suh!” Tick grinned. “Dat ’ll he’p me a heap!”

Tick passed out of the bank and stood on the street in front of the big plateglass window. He took off his battered wool hat and scratched his woolly head in real perplexity. Certainly, Marse Tom had assigned him a tremendous task.

The world was full of marriageable colored women.

What woman should he ask?

He looked up and down the street with an appraising eye. He could see ten women; some were fat and some were lean, some were kind and some were mean—what kind should he choose?

“Dat white man shore is wropped up my kinky hair with a strong string,” he sighed as he mopped the sweat from his face. “I b’lieve I’ll go ax a few advices outen Skeeter Butts.”

II
SKEETER HELPS

No one knows how Skeeter Butts got his reputation among the members of his race as the possessor of supernal wisdom. Nevertheless, in every emergency it was their custom to ask Skeeter Butts, and Skeeter was always there with the good advice.

Inexpert physicians frequently say to their patients, “I’ll try this medicine, and if it don’t do the work, I’ll change to something else.” Skeeter followed the same method with his advice. With the inexpert physician, too, often one medicine calls for another; always with Skeeter, one suggestion led to another; and the reason with both was the same—because dangerous complications “set up.”

On matrimonial matters, Skeeter was supposed to be extremely wise.

He had courted every woman in Tickfall and its environs without actually committing matrimony. His experiences had been many and varied, and highly educational. So when Tick Hush appeared in the Hen-Scratch saloon with a look of perplexed melancholy upon his brown face, Skeeter at once heated up his mental incubator to hatch out a few rare thoughts.

“Dis here is a awful mess, Skeeter,” Tick began as he held an ill-smelling perique stogie between his stiff and trembling lips. “Marse Tom Gaitskill is shore kotch my tail in a cuttin’-box.”

“How come?” Skeeter asked.

“He offered me a job on de pest-house plantation pervidin’ only but dat I gits married inside two weeks.”

“Dat’s easy,” Skeeter grinned. “Lady folks is crazy ’bout steppin’ off, an’ anybody kin git married.”

“How is dat did?” Tick asked.

“At de fust off-startin’, you seleck a woman whut you wants to marry,” Skeeter suggested.

“Dat gits me in a jam right now,” Tick mourned. “I’s powerful fondish on two nigger women.”

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter grunted. “Dat looks like cormpilations mought set up an’ us ’ll hab plenty doin’s. Name de femaleses!”

“Limit Lark an’ Vakey Vapp,” Tick told him.

“Gosh!” Skeeter sighed. “Why cain’t you rattle de bones, or cut cyards, or flop up a jitney, an’ decide which am de whicher?”

“’Tain’t pious,” Tick replied.

“You needn’t let dat pester you,” Skeeter cackled. “Ary one of dem womens will make you lose yo’ religium powerful soon atter you marries ’em.”

“Cain’t you think up no highbrow way of deecidin’?” Tick inquired.

“Suttinly,” Skeeter snapped. “But I don’t think brains he’ps a man whut’s got his mind sot on mettermony. Look at me—I’s a smart, up-to-date, new-issue nigger—an’ I cain’t git married to nothin’! Brains don’t git me even a two-times, secont-han’, hand-me-down widder!”

“Dat’s because you is too choosey,” Tick grinned.

“Mebbe so,” Skeeter replied, as he applied his mind to the problem before him. At last he suggested:

“How would it suit to write a letter to one of dem niggers an’ ax her to marry you?”

“Dat don’t he’p me,” Tick explained. “Ef I knowed which one to write to fust, I’d know which one to ax fust——”

“I sees,” Skeeter interrupted. “You likes ’em bofe alike, each one as much as de yuther. Well—whichsomever one you take, you’ll wish to Gawd you’d tuck de yuther one—lemme think!”

Skeeter lighted a cigarette and rubbed his nervous hands over his closely cropped head. Then he jumped to his feet with a yelp.

“I got it, Ticky!” he squealed. “Dis here is a histidious notion—listen. You an’ me will write a letter to bofe dem nigger womens. Den we’ll git a nigger whut cain’t read ner write to pick out one of dem letters outen a hat. De letter whut de igernunt coon picks out is de one to be sont.”

“Listen to dat!” Tick Hush applauded. “Dat sounds real cute. Git some paper an’ a writin’ pencil!”

Skeeter found two soiled envelopes, a writing-pad and the stub of a pencil. Sitting down at a table, he arranged them carefully, and said:

“You do de heavy thinkin’, Ticky, while I writes!”

Tick Hush rose to his feet and began a nervous pacing up and down beside the table. He cleared his throat, wiped the sweat from his face, fanned himself with his hat, took off one brogan shoe and shook the gravel out of it.

Skeeter Butts sat and waited.

At length, Tick straightened up, breathed like a husky bellows, and began:

“Dear Limit—” Then he broke off to ask: “How’m I gittin’ along so fur, Skeeter?”

“Dat’s a fine start-off,” Skeeter assured him. “I think she’ll kotch on to dat easy.”

“Say, ’I wants to git married right away’—hold on, Skeeter!” Tick exclaimed in a sudden panic. “Don’t be so peart ’bout writin’ how soon—tell her atter while, befo’ long, when I kin git aroun’ to it, when de craps is all in, or somepin like dat.”

“Naw!” Skeeter retorted as he began to write. “Tell her de real facks: ‘I wants to git married in de nex’ ten days.’”

“O Lawdy,” Tick sighed. “Dat sounds powerful early to me!”

“Go on!” Skeeter snapped.

“Say, ‘I hopes—I hopes—I hopes——’”

“Shut up!” Skeeter snapped. “You sound like a danged ole donkey brayin’—you don’t hope nothin’! Tell on!”

“Say, ‘Me an’ Skeeter—us thinks you-all oughter marry us’!” Tick Hush dictated.

Skeeter Butts laid aside his pencil and leaned back, glaring at Tick with mingled pity and contempt.

“You is de worst igermus I knows of, Ticky Hush!” he squealed. “Ef you an’ me wus to swap heads, I’d die a durn fool! Stop talkin’ wid yo’ mouth an’ think!”

Thus admonished, Tick Hush took a big breath and a tidal wave of dictation splashed all around the head of Skeeter Butts.

“Say, ‘Will you marry me real soon?’ Say, ‘I got a job on Marse Tom Gaitskill’s pest-house farm.’ Say, ‘I’ll take you out to see de place.’ Say, ‘We lives togedder—plenty money, plenty eats. Answer prompt! Yours—yo’ husbunt—yo——’”

“Naw!” Skeeter interrupted. “You don’t want no answer through de mail-box—tell her to meet you somewhar to-morrer night, ef she is willin’ to take you on!”

“Dat’s right!” Tick agreed. Then he dictated: “Say, ‘Answer prompt. Ef you is willin’, meet me to-morrer night behime de Shoofly church under dat big sycamo’ tree. Yours truly Tick Hush.”

“Dat’s de way to talk it,” Skeeter applauded. “Ef you wants a hoe-cake, reach out yo’ hand fer it. Now wait a minute till I copy dis same letter, because we got to hab two.”

When Skeeter had made the copy, he addressed the two envelopes and slipped one message into each, being extremely careful not to get the letters mixed and put them in the wrong envelopes.

“Now, Skeeter,” Ticky asked, “who we gwine git to pick out dis letter?”

“Little Bit cain’t read nothin’,” Skeeter suggested.

“Let him pick,” Tick agreed.

In answer to Skeeter’s call, a diminutive, bullet-headed boy came from the rear room and picked up a white envelope.

“Dat’s all, Little Bit!” Skeeter told him. “You git!”

With the nervous solemnity of a man who was determining the destiny of two lives, Skeeter turned the envelope so he could see the address.

“It’s de letter to Limit Lark,” he almost whispered.

Tick Hush sighed deeply.

“Dat’s fine, Skeeter,” he said in a low voice. “I sorter hoped it’d be Limit Lark, an’ I’d be plum’ happy ef she takes me—only but now I kinder wish de yuther woman hadn’t drawed no blank.”

“Mebbe Limit won’t take you an’ dat ’ll gib you a shot at de yuther gal,” Skeeter said hopefully. “Lemme see. Limit wucks fer Judge Lanark. I’ll write his name on one corner of dis, an’ dey ’ll put de letter in de judge’s box.”

Skeeter stamped the envelope and called Little Bit.

“Take dis right straight to de post-office, boy,” he commanded.

“Much obleeged, Skeeter,” Tick said as he started out. “Dat he’ps a mighty load offen my mind.”

When Tick Hush had gone, Skeeter stood fumbling with the letter addressed to Vakey Vapp. He placed a stamp upon it. Then a slow grin spread over his face.

“It’s a plum’ pity dat Vakey Vapp don’t git no letter,” he murmured. “I’s gwine down an’ mail dis letter to her as soon as Little Bit gits back. Bofe dem womans cain’t want Tick, an’ ’twon’t do no harm. Mebbe it’ll do a large amount of great good.”

III
SAFETY FIRST

On his way to keep his engagement with Limit Lark under the tree behind the Shoofly church, Tick Hush had to pass the Hen-Scratch saloon. When he reached the door he walked in.

“I helt up a minute fer a few last advices, Skeeter,” he said nervously as he fumbled with his hat and panted like a tired dog.

“Whut ails you now?” Skeeter demanded.

“Ef dat woman meets me under dat tree, whut muss I say to her?” Tick inquired.

“Ax her did she git yo’ letter,” Skeeter suggested.

“She won’t be dar ef she don’t git de letter,” Tick protested.

“Suttinly,” Skeeter agreed, “but dat will make talk an’ it’s a good way to begin.”

“Whut muss I say atter dat?” Tick asked helplessly.

“Ax her will she marry you,” Skeeter said.

“Ef she say she will, whut muss I do next?” Tick wanted to know.

“Grab her!” Skeeter cackled. “Swing onto her like a cockle-bur to a woolly dawg’s y-ear!”

“Dat sounds easy!” Tick remarked, in a tone which indicated that he considered the task attended by both difficulty and danger. “I shore hopes I don’t make no miscue!”

“You cain’t make no mistake,” Skeeter grinned. “Womens likes to be hugged. I knows—I done tried it a millyum times. Dat’s yo’ one safe bet!”

“All right!” Tick remarked in a tone indicating that it was all wrong, and he rose reluctantly to his feet. “I’ll try to make de riffle—but you listen out, Skeeter! Ef you hear any real loud hollerin’ up de Shoofly way, you’ll know it’s me! I got a hunch dat de grabbin’ will be on de yuther foot—dat nigger woman is gwine grab me!”

“Dat’ll be best of all,” Skeeter said, with a knowing grin. “Ef she do de grabbin’, dat means you is shore kotch—pervidin’ she don’t bite an’ scratch at de same time.”

Tick slowly retreated from the room, and Skeeter promptly reached for his own hat and started in the same direction.

“Dat po’ fool nigger mought need a little back-up-ance,” said Skeeter, grinning to himself.

In the shadow of the Shoofly church Tick Hush waited, his anxious eyes fixed upon a bench under a sycamore tree where he was to meet and make the final matrimonial arrangements with Limit Lark.

Sometimes there comes out of the swamp into Tickfall a negro so simple that his life has consisted of eating, sleeping, and working. Having lived far from civilization, his innocence and ignorance are amazing. He is a joy to the planter, for he works hard and does just as he is told to do. Coming into contact with the negro social life of Tickfall, he is also a joy to his colored friends—he contributes so largely to the funny side of life.

Skeeter knew that Tick Hush was sure to contribute much to the gaiety of the negro inhabitants of Tickfall, and he had already tipped off his friends to be ready to help him when he needed them.

So Tick waited at the church, peering across the yard in the dim light of a young moon, feeling more nervous and panicky as the moments passed, repeating with dry lips the instructions of Skeeter Butts:

“Ax her did she git de letter—ax her to marry me—grab her!”

Then a sudden weakness overcame him and he sat down upon the ground so forcibly that he nearly jarred his head loose from the rest of his anatomy.

“Gosh!” he murmured.

A woman dressed in white had moved quickly across the churchyard and had seated herself upon the bench under the sycamore tree. Tick experienced about the same sensation that might come to a war spy backed up against a church wall and facing a firing squad. Tick knew he was facing his fate.

“I guess I’m got to make de riffle,” he sighed as he started slowly across the churchyard.

The woman saw him and stood up.

“Hello, Limit!” Tick began. “Did you git my letter?”

“Yes, suh,” the girl giggled.

She was a tall, neatly dressed woman, with typical African features and skin as black as coal. In the dim moonlight she began to look good to the embarrassed Tick Hush.

Tick felt his courage oozing away, so he began to speak in a loud voice:

“Is you gwine marry me?” he howled.

“Hush!” Limit whispered. “Some nigger woman is comin’ dis way—she mought hear us!”

The two sat down on the bench and waited.

The second woman came up confidently, jauntily.

She was a square-headed, woolly-haired, pout-lipped negro, with a short temper and a long tongue.

It was Vakey Vapp.

Tick Hush gazed at her in horror. Already he could hear himself squalling to Skeeter Butts to come and rescue him from the wrath of these two women.

“Hello, Ticky,” Vakey said easily. “I got yo’ letter all right an’ I got here as quick as I could. Dat Gaitskill plantation looks good to me. I favors ownin’ it right now!”

“Hold on, cullud folks!” Tick begged. “Don’t shove me along so peart. You got to start me slow an’ gimme time. S’pose you-alls sets here a minute an’ converse yo’se’ves, an’ lemme go git Skeeter Butts.”

“Whut you need wid Skeeter?” Limit Lark inquired.

“Eh—uh—oh, Lawdy, I needs him bad—Skeeter’s pretty handy to hab aroun’. I needs him fer comp’ny—social puppuses—gosh!”

“Whut’s pesterin’ yo’ mind, Tick?” Vakey snapped. “You ain’t actin’ plum honest about somepin!”

“Yes’m—dat’s a fack—er—I speck I better git gwine!” Tick moaned.

“Not yit, Ticky!” Limit Lark said sharply. “I done walked pretty fur to dis place an’ I wants my permittune to marry you right now. Is you gwine hitch up wid me?”

“Honey,” Tick said desperately, “I don’t like to say nothin’ ’bout dat befo’ comp’ny—less git off alone by ourse’ves fust!”

“How’s dat?” Vakey snapped. “Whut you sayin’, Ticky? Is you figgerin’ on marryin’ dis here Limit nigger?”

“No’m,” Tick began, “I ain’t really especkin’ to——”

“Whut you say, nigger man?” Limit howled, laying a firm and competent hand upon Tick’s coat collar. “Talk straight, Ticky! An’ don’t you fergit dat I always totes a mighty hard fist fer social pupposes!”

She thrust a big clenched hand under Tick’s nose, and Tick whistled through his nostrils like a mustang smelling a bear.

“I totes a big gun fer social pupposes!” Vakey Vapp announced in a raucous voice as she thrust her right hand into the folds of her ragged dress.

Then Tick squalled and bolted. But he did not get very far. Limit and Vakey pooled their interests. They laid hold upon the struggling colored man, fought with him across the yard, and backed him up against the church, a terrified chunk of cringing flesh.

“Now, Ticky,” Vakey proclaimed as she flourished her big pistol before Tick’s frightened face, “me an’ Limit is gwine straighten you out flat. You cain’t fool no ole ginny-hens like us—so you better tell de Gawd’s truth.”

“Yes’m,” Tick stuttered.

“Did you write dis letter to me?” Vakey howled, shaking a soiled envelope under Tick’s nose.

“Yes’m,” Tick stuttered.

“Did you write dis here letter to me?” Limit whooped, waving another soiled envelope before his face.

“Yes’m,” Tick chattered.

“How come?” the two whooped in irate tones.

Vakey’s right hand was waving a pistol with what seemed to Tick to be extreme carelessness. He was sure he was going to be killed, and he lifted his terrified eyes for one startled look at the white tombstones which stood in the graveyard beside the church.

Then the only inspiration he had ever had came to him in a flash.

“My Gawd!” he whooped, and his face and voice were certainly expressive of terror, an alarm he had been feeling for ten minutes. “My Gawd! Look over yander at that graveyard!”

The two women turned to look with startled suddenness.

It was quite an artful ruse for a slow wit like Tick Hush. He had not seen a thing, but as the women turned Tick took the first step in his getaway.

Then a fortuitous circumstance contributed to Tick’s escape.

Skeeter Butts had concealed himself on the far side of the churchyard near to the cemetery fence in order to command a large view of the locality near the sycamore tree where Tick was to meet the two women.

Skeeter was afraid of that graveyard. He did not like to lie down so near to it. For ten minutes the cold shivers had been chasing up and down his spine, and he earnestly desired to be anywhere but where he was.

As soon as he heard Tick’s horrified exclamation he felt like he must leave the vicinity of the burying-ground at once. He arose to depart, and thus it happened that it was Skeeter dressed in a ghostly white duck suit, that the two negro women saw!

Vakey Vapp raised the pistol which she kept for social purposes and fired five shots in rapid succession at Skeeter Butts. For the first time in his adventurous life Skeeter went through a graveyard at night alone!

Tick Hush went to Tickfall, running about one hundred yards in advance of the two women, and the trio made as much noise as a calliope played by a maniac with a hundred fingers!

IV
THE COLONEL ISSUES ORDERS

In every storm Tick Hush always anchored himself to a white man. So, on this occasion, he did not stop running until he stood gasping for breath on Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s lawn.

Tick heard voices coming from the porch, and he knew better than to rush precipitately into the presence of guests. He began to listen, and after a while he broke into a grin.

“Dem white men is feelin’ good. Dey’s jes’ explodin’ jokes to each yuther. I’s gwine bust in an’ explode my tale of trouble.”

He walked closer to the porch and stood where the pale moonlight fell upon him.

“Is dat Marse Tom Gaitskill’s voice I hears?” he asked in a timid tone.

“Yes. What is it?”

“Marse Tom, I’s in powerful deep trouble,” Tick sighed as he came up to the porch steps. “Yes, suh, trouble is done slopped my trough good.”

“Well—tell us about it,” Gaitskill said impatiently. “Spill it!”

“You tole me I had to git married, Marse Tom,” Tick began. “I fanciated two nigger womens pretty good, so I writ a letter to bofe of ’em an’ axed ’em to marry me. Bofe of ’em tuck me up on dat.”

“That ought to make you feel happy,” Gaitskill chuckled.

“Naw, suh, it worries me in my mind. You see, bofe dem niggers met me under a sycamo’ tree, an’ one of ’em bragged her brags dat she toted a pistol reg’lar, an’ dey backed me up ag’in’ de chu’ch to pussuade me, an’—an’ a ha’nt come outen de graveyard——”

Tick stopped and chuckled.

“That ha’nt shore done me a good favor. I’d ’a’ been a ha’nt myse’f by now ef he hadn’t showed up so handy.”

“What did you do?” Gaitskill laughed.

“I lef’ dem two nigger womens wid him,” Tick snickered. “Dat ha’nt never could ’a’ kep’ up wid me—he didn’t had no use fer me nohow—an’ I didn’t need him—so I let de lady folks hab him all to deirse’ves.”

“You’ve heard this negro’s testimony, judge. What’s your verdict?” Gaitskill asked smilingly of Judge Henry Lanark, who sat beside him on the porch.

“Thank the Lord, I’m no lunacy jury,” Lanark laughed. Then he asked: “Was one of those women named Limit, Tick?”

“Yes, suh.”

“I have a little corroborating testimony to offer,” Judge Lanark remarked to Gaitskill. “I got a letter in my post-office box to-day addressed to Limit Lark, my cook. I presume Tick picked her for matrimonial honors.”

“Yes, suh, dat’s her,” Tick chuckled.

“What do you want me to do about it, Tick?” Gaitskill asked.

“I dunno, Marse Tom. I jes’ come to git a view from you ’bout dat.”

“What do you think those two women will do to you?” Gaitskill queried.

“Kill me dead,” Tick answered simply.

“In that case, I presume you do not care to consider a matrimonial alliance with either,” Gaitskill grinned.

“Naw, suh, nothin’ like dat.”

“What do you think those two women will do to each other when they compare the contents of those two letters?” Gaitskill asked next.

“Gawd knows,” Tick sighed.

“It would be wise to recover those letters, if possible,” Judge Lanark suggested.

“I kin git ’em all right,” Tick said. “Bofe letters is layin’ on de groun’ close to de Shoofly chu’ch whar dey dropped ’em down when dey seed de ha’nt.”

“Go get them at once!” Lanark commanded.

“I’ll git ’em in de mawnin’, jedge,” Tick replied. “Nobody ain’t gwine pick ’em up to-night—not no niggers—dey ain’t!”

“Isn’t there some other woman you could fall in love with?” Gaitskill wanted to know.

“I ’speck so, boss.”

“I advise you to choose a third party and marry her,” Gaitskill said.

“I’s kinder squeamish ’bout dat, kunnel,” Tick said earnestly. “You see, dis am de fustest time I is ever messed wid mattermony, an’ I ain’t real shore of my foot-holt.”

“You have messed it pretty well, so far,” Gaitskill laughed. “Of course, if you don’t want to marry, I think I can find some other man to put on my plantation as tenant——”

“Naw, suh, kunnel,” Tick interrupted with emphasis. “I’s gwine git dat job ef I’s got to mess up wid all de mattermony ladies in dis town. I needs dat job.”

“Go as far as you like,” Gaitskill smiled. “You can’t make me mad. If you get into trouble I’ll help you all I can, and I am sure the judge will give you the benefit of his legal knowledge and experience.”

“Will you-alls really he’p me, Marse Tom?” Tick asked eagerly.

Gaitskill did not know that his jesting words were being taken seriously. So his answer to Tick’s eager question was unfortunate. It had the effect of turning Tick loose on the community, feeling that he could do anything with impunity because the colonel and the judge were with him.

“Certainly,” Gaitskill said. “We’ll be glad to help you.”

“Could you begin he’pin’ by loantin’ me five dollars?” Tick asked diffidently.

“Give it to him!” Lanark exploded. “War munitions—campaign expenses!”

Tick turned away with the money in his pocket and exultation in his heart. With two great men to back his enterprises, he was sure he could accomplish great things. Whatever the risks, he would be perfectly safe. Even if he got into jail, the judge would help him out again.

“I’ll mess wid mattermony, all right!” he chuckled. “It’s de kunnel’s awders!”

V
SKEETER HELPS SOME MORE

Early the next morning Tick Hush appeared at the Hen-Scratch saloon and found Skeeter Butts nursing a grouch and sundry bruises, all of which he had received in his wild flight through the graveyard.

“Whut you showin’ up here fer?” Skeeter snarled.

“Troubles,” Tick told him.

“I’m got ’em of my own,” Skeeter snapped. “Don’t pesticate me.”

“You’s de only good-advicin’ nigger in Tickfall, Skeeter,” Tick said earnestly. “Ef a feller cain’t ax you ’terrogations, he mought as well go out an’ suicide hisse’f!”

“Ain’t it de trufe!” Skeeter grinned, greatly mollified by this praise. “Whut ails you now?”

“I had a leetle talk wid Limit an’ Vakey las’ night, an’ I done decided to cut ’em bofe out. Dey argufies pretty sharp yistiddy evenin’. One of ’em applied at me wid a big gun—I don’t favor dat kind of nigger.”

“Ef you is done got dat wise, you don’t need no more advices,” Skeeter grinned. “Eve’y nigger woman argufies wid guns an’ razors an’ skillets, an’ truck like dat. Of co’se, ef you cuts all dat out, dat means you ain’t gwine hitch double wid nobody.”

“But I got to marry!” Tick exclaimed. “Marse Tom specify——”

“All right!” Skeeter interrupted tartly. “Who am de choosen woman now?”

“Well, suh, I cogitate dat Button Hook is de right kind of meekified woman fer me to take on,” Tick declared. “Button is kinder sweet an’ soft-spoke.”

“I fell in love wid a woman like dat wunst,” Skeeter grinned. “Us wus about to git married. I axed her whut she done fer a livin’ so she could suppote me like I wus raised—an’ she said she an’ her pap kotch snakes in de swamp an’ sold ’em to show folks in a circus. De nex’ time I seed her she had a lapful of rattlesnakes—dat wus de last time I looked at her, too!”

“My Lawd!” Tick murmured.

“You cain’t tell nothin’ ’bout pickin’ ’em,” Skeeter continued. “Dey’s wuss’n race-hosses. You bet yo’ money an’ you lose it on a hoss; you bet yo’ money an’ you lose it on a woman; an’ on top of dat you is wished yo’se’f a live job, losin’ money all de time.”

“Now, ’bout dis Button Hook—” Tick began.

“Suttinly,” Skeeter Butts interrupted. “She’ll throw de hook inter you all right. You go nibblin’ aroun’ dat hook an’ you’s already a sucker on a string—powerful soon you’ll be crackin’ an’ fryin’ in a skillet. Suttinly—go ahead! Whut wus you gwine to say?”

“I wus fixin’ to remark dat she comes in pretty handy right now. Dat’s my onlies’ chance. Marse Tom specify fer me to seleck a third party. De kunnel an’ Judge Lanark gib me a few advices las’ night, an’ bofe dem white mens said dey would stan’ by me.”

Skeeter sat up with a sudden and great interest.

“Why’n’t you tell me dat Kunnel Gaitskill an’ Jedge Lanark wus backin’ you in dis race? Dat makes it plum diffunt. I jines in wid de white folks, too.”

“Dat happifies me consid’able, Skeeter,” Tick exclaimed with a wide grin. “Whut is our fust move-up?”

“We mought write a letter to Button——”

“Naw!” Tick exploded. “Jedge Lanark say dat govermint wus agin love letters—dey gits you in trouble wid de cotehouse. Dem two niggers drapped dem letters on de groun’ las’ night, an’ I foun’ ’em close to de Shoofly chu’ch dis mawnin’. I got ’em in de inside coat-pocket right now, next to my heart.”

“Gib ’em to me—” Skeeter said eagerly.

“Naw, suh. I’ll tote ’em in my own coat-pocket,” Tick snarled. “I let you keep one yistiddy an’ it got away from you! Go on wid dem Button advices!”

“You mought send Button a box of candy, den wait a day or two an’ go out dar an’ talk sweet——”

“’Twon’t do, Skeeter. Candy costs money; excusin’ dat, I got to hurry along wid dis mattermony—I needs somepin hasty.”

“Run in dar some night an’ kidnap her up!” Skeeter suggested.

“Say, Skeeter,” Tick asked with a wide grin, “did you ever hear a skeart nigger woman holler?”

“Yes, indeedy,” the little barkeeper snickered. “I heerd two las’ night. Steamboat whistles am jes’ little wheezes when a nigger woman begins to squall.”

“No nigger-stealin’ fer me,” Tick announced with finality.

Skeeter lighted a cigarette and began to ponder.

Give Skeeter Butts the number two, and his active brain could always make four or forty-four by the simple process of multiplying. From the little Tick Hush had said, Skeeter multiplied and got this result: Gaitskill and Lanark had selected Button Hook as a suitable wife for Tick Hush; the white folks would be greatly disappointed if Tick did not marry her; any man who helped Tick get married to the woman of their choice would be in good favor with those two influential white men.

Reasoning thus, Skeeter determined to invent a plan which would insure a hasty marriage between Tick and Button, and he resolved at the same time to be the best man at their wedding. Most people, facing this situation, would have told Tick to go to Button Hook and ask her to marry him, pressing his suit with ardor, eloquence, and affection until the lady consented. But Skeeter never could think of the obvious thing.

There was a long silence in the Hen-Scratch saloon, interrupted only by the scratching of matches and the jiggering of feet.

At length Skeeter stood up with a loud laugh.

“Gee,” he howled. “My brains shore is actin’ like gourd-seeds to-day—I wonder how I never thunk of dat at fust!”

“Don’t bust no jokes on me, Skeeter,” Tick warned him. “Dis here is solemn bizzness, an’ de white folks don’t take no nigger foolishness.”

“Listen, Tick!” Skeeter commanded. “Whut you needs is a few lessons in coteship an’ marriage.”

“Dat’s a fack,” Tick agreed. “I needs a shawt cut-off.”

“Dar’s a actor-woman in dis town named Dazzle Zenor. She plays love parts in shows. I acted wid her once—we wus stunt-dancers fer de Nigger Uplift dat time I got shotted accidental.”

“Dat don’t he’p me none——”

“Aw, shut up!” Skeeter snapped. “You listen to me talk! Fools like you gimme a pain. Now, dis here Dazzle gal, she knows all about how to make love an’ how to cote a gal an’ how to ax to git married because she studies dat fer de stage.”

“I sees de light,” Tick grinned.

“Now, de dog’s tail wags dis way,” Skeeter said, warming up to his great idea. “You wants to go to Dazzle Zenor an’ ax her to gib you a few cheap lessons on how to make love an’ git married quick.”

“Dat’s whut I needs!” Tick agreed hesitatingly.

“Is you got any money on yer?” Skeeter demanded.

“De kunnel gib me five dollars las’ night,” Tick replied reluctantly.

“Dat’s a plenty,” Skeeter told him. “Dazzle will gib you five dollars’ wuth of lessons, an’ den you kin git married jes’ like drappin’ a hat.”

“Whar do Dazzle stay at?”

“She stays at Ginny Babe Chew’s house.”

“Would you mind gwine wid me, Skeeter?” Tick inquired. “I needs somebody to he’p me make de fust arrangements.”

“I never had no yuther idear!” Skeeter howled. “Ain’t dis here my plan? I don’t let no rooster like you crow up my big idears—I sees ’em through.”

He reached for his hat, and Tick stood up to go with him. Then he whooped:

“Oh, Little Bit! You take keer dis saloom till I gits back!”

VI
LOVE LESSONS

“You do de talkin’ fer me, Skeeter,” Tick begged as they entered Ginny Babe Chew’s yard. “I ain’t never got into no mess like dis befo’, an’ I cain’t tongue it out as free as you kin.”

“Dar she am,” Skeeter exclaimed, as he pointed to a young colored woman sitting on a bench under a pecan tree at the side of the house. “Come on!”

Dazzle Zenor was certainly the sort of woman a colored man would naturally select to teach him the art of love. She was slim and graceful, neat as a new pin and beautifully dressed; she had fine Moorish features, and smiled with beautiful teeth and did flattering things with her eyes, for Dazzle was a real actress.

“Dis here cullud gen’leman is got de love-bug, Dazzle,” Skeeter explained. “He wants to cote a gal so dat he kin marry her real prompt, an’ he don’t know how it is did. I tole him you wus a female actor an’ you could teach him how to love wid one lesson.”

Then Skeeter executed an elaborate wink.

“How much kin you pay?” Dazzle asked, looking at Tick.

“How much do it cost?” Tick asked cautiously.

“How many money is you got?” Dazzle inquired.

Tick handed her a five-dollar bill.

“Dat’s a plenty,” Dazzle laughed as she folded the bill and slipped it into the palm of her kid glove. Then she looked Tick over as if he were a horse she was thinking of buying. After a while she asked:

“Whut does you know about makin’ love to a woman, Tick?”

“Nothin’,” Tick answered modestly.

“Ain’t you never kissed no womens?” Dazzle asked incredulously.

“Yes’m.”

“Well, what happened?”

“Dey batted me over de head wid de fust thing whut come handy. De las’ one broke a puffeckly good settin’-chair on my noodle.”

“Ain’t you never hugged no womens?” Dazzle asked.

“I can’t perzackly call it huggin’,” Tick explained. “Quick as I grab ’em, dey squall an’ fight an’ ack like dey wus ag’in it.”

Dazzle turned to Skeeter with an amazed question:

“Did you ever see de beat?”

Skeeter was evidently stricken dumb before such complete inexperience and such colossal ignorance.

Tick wadded his hat into a tight ball and waited while Dazzle thought out a course of instruction.

“All right, Ticky,” she said, at last. “I’ll set here on dis bench an’ you come a-courtin’ me. Do de very best you knows how, an’ Skeeter kin stan’ off on one side an’ suggest improvements on de lesson.”

Dazzle sat down and waited.

Tick fumbled with his hat, and breathed like a choking horse.

Skeeter stood like a motion-picture director looking at the actors in this drama of love.

“Git busy!” Skeeter howled.

“Whu—whut muss I do fust?” Tick growled.

“Kiss her—kiss her!” Skeeter ordered.

Tick sat down beside Dazzle, and started to kiss her. Then he backed away, and took up his position at the far end of the bench, looking at her with extreme embarrassment.

“Aw, shuckins!” Skeeter howled. “You kissed at dat purdy gal like a sick sheep lickin’ salt! Don’t be skeart you’ll git too much—she ain’t p’ison—git yo’ five dollar’s wuth!”

Tick Hush “sulled.”

“I ain’t gwine take no mo’ lesson,” he declared. “You-all is jes’ prankin’ wid me. I wants my five dollars back.”

“Nothin’ doin’, Ticky,” Dazzle laughed. “I ain’t gwine git in de habit of givin’ money back—it’s too expensive. Bless Gawd, I ain’t never gib none back yit. Come on wid yo’ lessons!”

“I’s jes’ losin’ time an’ money monkeyin’ wid you-alls,” Tick growled. “You niggers is flimflamuxed me.”

“Naw!” Skeeter howled. “You’ll git yo’ money’s wuth. Lemme take yo’ place an’ show you how it is did!”

“You needn’t apply, Skeeter,” Dazzle grinned. “I’s givin’ dese here lessons. I’ll let Tick set on de bench an’ I’ll show him how it oughter be did. Set down, Tick!”

Tick sat down on the bench with about as much eagerness as a condemned man takes his seat in the electric chair. And he waited for what was to happen with about the same feeling that a man awaits the electric shock.

“Here’s de way to do de kissin’ ack,” Dazzle exclaimed in her best stage voice.

She swept forward in her best stage manner and threw her eager arms around—empty air.

Tick bolted.

Skeeter Butts grabbed a tree, laid his head back between his shoulder blades, opened his mouth to its fullest extent, and laughed like a fool.

Tick got a Cherokee rosebush between himself and the histrionic beauty and took a lesson in watchful waiting.

“Ketch him, Dazzle,” Skeeter screamed. “Ketch him—O my Lawd!”

His voice trailed off in demoniacal whoops of laughter like a wind-broken calliope, and Dazzle sat down with an astonishment which left her perfectly helpless.

In all her earthly career, she had never before found a man who bolted when she wanted to kiss him!

With a decisive gesture, she removed the five-dollar bill from the palm of her glove, and stood up, facing Tick Hush.

“Come here, Tick, an’ git dis money!” she commanded.

“No’m,” Tick chattered. “I wouldn’t come even fer five dollars!”

“Come on! I won’t kiss you—I jes’ want to han’ dis change back—honest!” Dazzle urged.

“Hang it on de rose bush an’ git back about fawty feet!” Tick commanded. “I ain’t trustin’ nobody no more!”

Dazzle solemnly laid the bill upon a branch of the rose, piercing it with a thorn so that it would not fall to the ground.

“Tick,” she said in a serious tone, “my advices to you is dis: You buy a real nice present fer dat gal of your’n wid dis money. Gib it to her an’ tell her you wants to marry her, den ax her paw to throw you down an hawg-tie you ontil she kin git her fust engagement kiss. Good-by!”

Dazzle Zenor turned away from the two men, went straight to her room, and sat down before a mirror. For half an hour, she studied every feature of her face with critical inspection. But her silent inquiry was in vain. To the end of her life, she wondered why Tick had bolted when she had tried to kiss him!

As for Tick, he edged around the rosebush until he got within reaching distance of that five-dollar bill. He grabbed it and ran down the street as if he were chased by a dozen pretty women desirous of presenting him with an affectionate osculation.

Skeeter’s maniacal laughter subsided to a hysterical giggle, as he watched Tick’s precipitous flight.

“Dar now!” he snickered. “De kisser’s gone an’ pulled his freight to kiss her on some later date!”

Then Skeeter sat down on the bench where Tick had received his first and last lesson in the art of love, and smoked one cigarette after another, sighing frequently and thinking hard. He decided that Tick had lost the opportunity of a lifetime to be kissed by the prettiest woman in the world, one who knew how to do it. Skeeter wished that he had had Tick’s chance.

“Shuckins!” he said in deep disgust. “A nigger like Tick don’t never know whut’s good fer him!”

VII
BUTTON HOOK

Deeply embarrassed by his experience, and sorely perplexed over his difficulties, Tick Hush wandered down toward that portion of the town occupied by the whites, and stopped short in his meditations before a drug-store which carried a stock of cheap jewelry. He held his retrieved five-dollar bill in his sweating palm and looked into the dusty show-window.

“Dat nigger actor gimme one good tip,” he murmured. “I’ll buy my gal a real nice present, and take it to her when I git ready to express my bizzness.”

He entered the drug-store timidly and leaned against a show-case.

“What you want, colored man?” the clerk asked.

“I wants a little gold fitten fer a cullud lady to wear on her,” Tick grinned diffidently.

“Everything in this show-case comes up to your specifications in one respect,” the clerk said flippantly. “There’s mighty little gold about the stuff. What do you fancy?”

“Dunno, suh. I wants a view from you on dat.”

“I’ve got it,” the clerk said, as he lifted out a piece of jewelry and held it up for inspection. “A wrist watch—just the thing—all the women wear them and every woman is crazy about them.”

“How much do dat’n cost?” Tick inquired.

“Four-ninety-eight—let you have it for five dollars, cash!” the clerk responded.

“Thank ’e, suh. Dat’s about de size of my little dab of money. Please wrop it up in a real nice box.”

The clerk polished the piece of jewelry, wrapped it neatly, and Tick started for the home of Button Hook with the package in his hip pocket.

Button lived on the edge of the negro settlement known as Hell’s Half-Acre, and Tick had no trouble learning whether or not she was at home, for he heard her voice, as high and as strident as the call of the katydid, singing a song which assured him:

“O love’s my meat, an’ love’s my drink, an’ love’s my daily fare—an’ Love an’ me walks han’ in han’ when I has a han’ to spare!”

Tick’s method of presenting her with the wristwatch was unique. He walked into the yard and knocked loudly upon the front door. Then he ran down to the street, laid his package in a conspicuous place on top of the gatepost, and hid behind a convenient stump upon the other side of the road to watch proceedings.

The girl came to the door and looked out. She spied the package and ran down after it. She unwrapped it, gave a squeal of delight, and ran back into the house.

“Dat made a fine hit!” Tick exclaimed, cutting a caper behind the stump.

He waited about ten minutes, then announced to himself:

“I reckin it’s ’bout time I wus gwine in an’ tellin’ her who sont her dat gift.”

He entered the yard and knocked loudly upon the door. Button Hook responded and Tick entered the house.

“Did you git a leetle somepin a while ago, Button?” he began.

“Naw,” the girl responded.

“Didn’t nobody leave you nothin’ on dat gatepost out dar?” Tick asked in a surprised tone.

“Naw!” the girl answered.

She sat before him quietly, a small, tan-colored woman, with small eyes, small hands, and features as dull and expressionless as the face of a rag doll.

“My gosh,” Tick howled. “Whut become of dat leetle gold wrist-watch I lef’ on dat gatepost?”

“Did you leave one out dar?” Button asked innocently.

“Suttinly!” Tick said. “An’ you got it, too. I know, because I peeped at you from behime a stump.”

“Dat’s right!” Button snickered.

“Whar is it?” Tick demanded.

“It didn’t hab no name on it an’ maw claimed it wus her’n,” she told him.

“Huh,” Tick grunted in despair. “Dat wus fer you—it was my weddin’ present to you.”

“Yo’—which?” the girl inquired in a startled tone.

“Yes’m,” Tick plunged on. “You an’ me is gwine git married. It’s Marse Tom Gaitskill’s awders—de Kunnel, an’ Jedge Henry Lanark, an’ Skeeter Butts—dey all agrees dat it’s shore got to be.”

The girl took a breath of astonishment which threatened to consume all the air in the room.

“Marse Tom says we kin live on de pest-house plantation. Dem deaders buried aroun’ dar won’t gib us no ketchin’ disease. We got a good cabin an’ plenty to eat, an’ I’ll make plenty dollars.”

Then while Button Hook still gasped for air, Tick stood up. He assumed Dazzle Zenor’s best stage manner, and swept down upon Button Hook to give her an imitation of Dazzle Zenor’s best stage kiss.

And Button did just what Tick had done—she bolted.

She ran out of the room and left Tick to embrace the empty air.

“Huh!” Tick grunted. “Dazzle should had gib me anodder lesson so I would know whut to do now.”

The windows in the room were closed tight, and Tick felt extremely warm. He tramped the floor for a few minutes, then took off his coat and hung it across the back of a chair.

“I reckin I better make myse’f at home an’ wait till Buttons gits back,” he soliloquized. “I don’t know whut else to do. Mebbe she’ll come back some time to-day.”

In the rear of the house, Button’s father was lying asleep on a pallet on the porch. He was an old man with long woolly hair, and long cork-screw whiskers; his feet were bare, and his body was clothed with a pair of ragged pantaloons and a soiled, patched, yellowish undershirt.

“Wake up, pap,” Button panted when she ran out of the room where Tick had tried to kiss her. “I got somepin to tell you.”

“Whut’s dat?” her parent inquired, rubbing his hands over his face and head and rumpling his hair and whiskers into a frightful disorder. “Whut you want?”

“A nigger man named Tick Hush is asettin’ in de front room an’ he wants to borrer yo’ shotgun,” Button told him.

“Shore!” old Hook exclaimed. “I’ll loant Ticky de gun!”

He hastily lifted the gun down from two nails upon the kitchen wall, and in his frightful disarray, he went prancing into the front sitting-room. When he appeared in the doorway, Tick Hush looked up and beheld a barefooted, shirtless old man, with disheveled hair and beard, holding a double-barreled shotgun, and Tick had just made an unsuccessful attempt to kiss that old gentleman’s lovely daughter!

“My Gawd!” Tick howled. “Somebody is got to take my place right now—it’s vacant!”

He went through the nearest window without taking the trouble to raise the sash. There was a crash of glass, and Tick picked himself up from the ground where he had fallen, and broke the world’s record for a half-mile dash.

He staggered into the Hen-Scratch saloon in the last stages of exhaustion and sank down weakly upon a chair.

Skeeter came and looked the fugitive over. His clothes were torn and covered with dust, and his face and head were bleeding from half a dozen slight cuts.

“Is you hurted, Ticky?” Skeeter asked sympathetically.

“I axed Button to marry me,” Tick panted. “I ain’t come away from no place as fast sence dat bear chased me through de swamp las’ year.”

“Did she take on much?” Skeeter snickered.

“Naw,” Tick growled. “Her ole pap chased me wid a shotgun. I loped plum’ acrost deir chicken-yard wid a winder sash hung aroun’ my neck like a dawg-collar.”

Skeeter bean to laugh.

“’Tain’t no use to cackle, Skeeter,” Tick exclaimed. “I’s gwine up to Marse Tom Gaitskill’s an’ tell him dat I won’t take charge of dat pest-house plantation at no price. I ain’t gwine be pestered to death messin’ wid mattermony no longer.”

“Dat’s too bad,” Skeeter said.

Then he stopped with mouth agape.

The door of the saloon opened, and Button Hook was standing in the room.

Her afterthought had been better than her forethought. She had considered Tick’s offer of marriage as soon as her father had chased him off the place, and had decided to take it. So now, she was hunting for her fugitive lover to entice him to renew his suit.

“Fer Heaven’s sake, Ticky,” she began, “whut made you run off so soon?”

“I needed some place fer to git,” Ticky growled. “Dat ole varmint wus fixin’ to shoot me wid dat gun.”

“’Tain’t so!” Button exclaimed. “He jes’ wanted to cornverse you a little about de pest-house plantation—an’ you busted a whole winder outen our cabin.”

“I shore busted it,” Tick agreed. “I’s gwine bust one eve’y time a nigger wants to cornverse me wid a shotgun.”

“Dat wus jes’ a joke, Ticky,” Button smiled, patting him on the shirt-sleeve where a slight cut showed the red. “I was prankin’ wid you all de time. Maw didn’t had dat watch; I had it hid behime de big clock in de very room whar you wus settin’ at.”

Button dropped her left hand down Tick’s arm until it rested upon his wrist. Tick looked, and saw his wrist watch clasped around her small brown arm.

“Did you really mean whut you wus sayin’ in my house, Ticky?” she asked.

“Yes’m,” Tick replied.

“I’m wid you in dat offer, Ticky,” Button said easily. “I says—Yes!”

“Listen to dat word!” Skeeter Butts exploded. “De arrangements is all sottled up—you’s got her, Ticky!”

Tick looked like a man who had drawn a grand prize in the lottery.

“Honey, you shore is lifted a weight offen my mind,” he assured her.

“I’s gwine expeck you up at my house to-night, Ticky,” Button told him as she started out. “You lef’ yo’ coat hangin’ on a chair in de front settin’-room an’ you got to come an’ git it.”

A moment after she had passed out Skeeter exclaimed:

“Telephome Marse Tom Gaitskill, Ticky. Tell him to git out dem pair of cotehouse licenses befo’ de clerk’s office shuts up. Hurry!”

VIII
“WHAT’S IN A NAME?”

Colonel Tom Gaitskill left the bank and walked across the street to the office of the clerk of the Third District Court.

“I want a colored marriage license, Mack,” he remarked as he leaned against the desk and began the ceremonial process of lighting a big cigar.

The deputy clerk grinned and opened a big book.

“What’s the man’s name?” he asked.

“Tick Hush.”

“Who’s the lady of color?” the clerk inquired, as his pen scratched on the paper.

Gaitskill’s hand paused, holding a lighted match about two inches from the end of his cigar. He held it there until the flame scorched his fingers. He dropped the match and sucked the blisters, uttering sundry expletives as sulfurous as the head of the match. Then he gave himself up to thought.

“Let me see,” he said. “Do you know I forgot to ask that negro what woman he was going to marry?”

He struck another match and lighted his cigar. He puffed like a steamboat for a minute, and spoke again:

“I was talking to Tick last night and he mentioned two negro women, Limit and Vakey. Now I wonder which one he decided to marry?”

“Which is the best cook?” the clerk grinned.

“Limit Lark, I presume,” the Colonel answered. “Limit cooks for Judge Lanark—ah, that’s the one. I remember now, because Judge Lanark was sitting on the porch with me at the time and I heard him complain that he was about to lose his cook—make out the license for Tick Hush and Limit Lark!”

The clerk quickly completed the document, collected two dollars and fifty cents of the banker’s money, and handed over the long envelope.

“How many of these licenses have you bought in your life, Mr. Gaitskill?”

“Two barrels full,” Gaitskill chuckled. “It’s a good investment. Courthouse marriages, as the negroes call them, stick better, and the negroes seem to get along with less fuss.”

Slipping the envelope in his pocket, he walked out. When he reached his home about dark, he found Tick Hush sitting under a tree waiting for him.

“Did you git dem pair of marriage license, Marse Tom?” Tick asked eagerly.

“Here is the document,” Gaitskill said, handing it to the grinning negro.

Tick seized it with trembling fingers, opened it hastily, then glared at it with popping eyeballs.

“Lawdymussy, Marse Tom!” he exclaimed. “You done had dem license made out fer de wrong gal.”

“How’s that?”

“Yes, suh, dat’s suttingly a miscue, kunnel. Dis paper says dat I’s gwine marry Limit Lark, but de real gal is Button Hook!”

“Aw, shucks!” Gaitskill exclaimed disgustedly. “I couldn’t remember what the woman’s name was. I don’t think you ever mentioned Button Hook to me. Give that paper back. I’ll have it changed.”

“Will it cost some more money to git it changed, kunnel?”

“I suppose the clerk will charge about a dollar for his extra work,” Gaitskill said. “I think I’ll let you pay that dollar—you ought to have telephoned me the woman’s name.”

Gaitskill pocketed the license and entered his home. Tick went out on the street and sat down on the pavement curbing with his feet in the gutter.

“Marse Tom is shore messed up dis bizzness awful bad,” he sighed to himself. “Dat white man is chargin’ me a puffeckly good dollar because he made a miscue. Dat ain’t right.”

He thought the matter over for a while and then broke into a low chuckle.

“By gosh, I b’lieve I’ll try dat on.”

He hastened down the street to Skeeter Butts.

“Loant me five dollars, Skeeter!” he exclaimed earnestly. “Marse Tom is done made a mistake wid dat weddin’ paper an’ I wants to git it fixed up right soon. He says it’ll cost me a dollar.”

The name of Gaitskill worked the miracle of liberality in Skeeter, and he handed over the money without a word of protest.

“Now I’s done got financial agin,” Tick panted, as he stepped rapidly along the street.

Suddenly a tremendous idea struck his brain and shocked him to a standstill. He leaned weakly against a convenient fence and waited till he could recover. Then he began to laugh so loud that a number of pickaninnies trotted out of the cabins and came across to where they could observe him with closer scrutiny.

“I’s done thunk up de onliest good idear I’s had sence dis bizziness started,” he exclaimed to himself. “I’s gwine peg it down befo’ de wind blows it away.”

He went straight to the kitchen of Judge Henry Lanark, where Limit Lark was serving as cook. He held an earnest and satisfactory conversation with her for about five minutes, and then hurried to the home of Colonel Gaitskill. Gaitskill was sitting upon the front porch.

“Marse Tom,” Tick began eagerly, “is you had dem license changed yit?”

“No.”

“I’s glad of dat, kunnel,” Tick chuckled. “I don’t want ’em changed a-tall!”

“Why is that?”

“I done decided to marry Limit Lark, Marse Tom,” Tick explained. “I talked it up wid Limit an’ she agreed wid me.”

“I thought you loved Button Hook,” Gaitskill protested.

“I does love her pretty good, kunnel,” Tick snickered. “But I been thinkin’ it over, an’ you wus gwine charge me a dollar to change de names in dem license, an’ I figger dat dar ain’t a dollar’s wuth of diffunce between dem two nigger womens!”

Having made this arrangement by which he had secured a marriage license, the promise of a wife, the loan of five dollars which he never expected to repay, and the saving of one dollar of his funds, Tick sauntered away with a big chunk of tobacco in his cheek and a large gob of peace in his soul.

Which goes to show that Tick’s social education was progressing.

In the mean time, Button Hook was carefully cleaning up the room in her home for the entertainment of Tick Hush when he fulfilled his promise to call that night and make the final arrangements for their wedding.

In that same room, Button found Tick’s coat. He had not taken it with him when her father appeared with the shotgun.

With her first thought of wifely care, she picked up the coat, brushed it until it was free from dust, then gave it a hard shake.

Two letters fell to the floor.

Button stooped and picked them up. One was addressed to Miss Limit Lark, and the other to Miss Vakey Vapp.

Then, with true wifely curiosity, Button opened both letters and read them. Except for the superscription, they were exactly the same.

Almost every sentence was preceded by the word—“say.” Button could not understand that, for she did not know that Tick had dictated while Skeeter had written the letters, and Skeeter was not experienced in writing dictation.

Here is an absolutely accurate transcription of what Button read:

D one

say this thought come to Me to Address you of Helth this Letr im wel and i truste this wil find you Enjoin Life

say i aint so faraway i cant come & see you but dont thing Hord of me for Not coming i were call away i wil Be Back to Morrer Nite

say if you want to See Me i want to See You the yorse in the world but i Wil Weight ontil i Here from you

say i want to ef you have Made up yo mine at Marring i want to Before Ten Das i Got a Job at Moss Tm Gatskills farm wher the pess Hous is at say the farm is only 8 Mile from you it is a short Diston if you want to see it say if you want to come out Here and look at the Plase i wil take you say im fixt to go to Work Now say im runing the Pest Farm im Geting 15D a month

say B swete as you can B

say we wil Do fine when we ar working to Gether

say i am making all these Dols for you & i and Dont tel me Noh because i M Bisnes.

say i am Not Goin With No other one i Have my Hold Hart & mine on you & no other

say if you say Yess meat me at sickmore tre Behine the Shoefli ch to Morrer Nite say I am looking for you at the ch

say Dont lett me be DCd in you

yos T
Tick Hush

When Button had deciphered this communication she placed both letters back in their envelopes and hid them behind the clock. Then she removed the little brass wrist-watch which Tick had given her from her arm and placed that with the two letters.

After that she turned around and addressed aloud the chair upon which Tick’s coat had rested:

“I wonder whut pap done wid dat double-barrel shotgun of his’n?”

She threw Tick’s coat disdainfully upon the floor, and stamped it with her feet.

“I’s gwine vowlate de law!” she announced. “I’s gwine scramble de remainders of Tick Hush all over Tickfall. Ef dey gits enough of him to hold a funeral over, dey’ll have to mop de pieces up wid a rag!”

She walked back to the porch in the rear of the house, and lifted down the heavy muzzle-loading shotgun. She examined it carefully, muttering threats.

“Lemme think,” she mumbled. “I b’lieve pap said when you gits ready to shoot you cocks back bofe hammers an’ pulls bofe triggers!”

She stepped out into the yard, the gun resting upon her arm.

“Soon as it gits good dark, I’ll start,” she murmured. “I muss git him befo’ de moon rises!”

IX
TICK CELEBRATES

“I shore am feelin’ fine to-night,” Tick muttered, as he walked away from Gaitskill’s home. “I feels like a cel’bration of some kind. De fust notion whut comes acrost my head, I’ll back it.”

Feeling hungry, he wandered toward the Shin Bone eating-house, and there, near the entrance, he met Dazzle Zenor.

“How am de love case gittin’ on, Ticky?” she giggled.

“Eve’ything is done sot an’ settled,” Tick grinned back. “Dat piece of love lesson you gimme wus suttinly a plenty.”

“You oughter stayed through it all, honey,” Dazzle smiled. “I’d ’a’ learnt you how to flash de glad eye, how to hold yo’ gal’s hand, how to hug her so tight she’d holler fer her mammy, an’ how to bite yo’ name in her cheek.”

“I didn’t need dat many lessons,” Tick informed her.

“Rememberin’ dat you ain’t paid me nothin’ fer whut I did learn you, it seems nachel to me dat you oughter buy me somepin to eat,” Dazzle suggested.

“Dat’ll suit me,” Tick exclaimed. “I ain’t got de same five dollars whut you gib me back, but I got anodder five whut is jes’ as good.”

It did not occur to Tick until afterward that it is not wise to tell an actress how much money you have in your possession when you take her out to supper.

Dazzle revealed a perfectly amazing appetite for both food and drink. She wanted her food cooked in sundry unique and most expensive ways, and she wanted a mixture of drinks which were several times as expensive as any that Tick had ever had to pay for.

For two hours they sat at the table laughing and talking, and Dazzle found that she had merely to flatter Tick about his social accomplishments to get him to go the limit financially.

Finally Dazzle announced that she had to go, and refused to let Tick accompany her to her destination.

Left alone in the restaurant, Tick counted his change and found that less than fifty cents remained of the five dollars which Skeeter had lent him.

He left the restaurant, entered a nearby saloon, and invested some more of his money in drink. When he reappeared upon the street he possessed one silver dime and a jag.

“Huh,” he grunted, as he looked down at the battered dime. “I’s suttinly pretty well ’luminated up to now. Wonder how come I still got dis here little dime? I b’lieve I’ll buy a watermellyum.”

He entered the restaurant again, purchased a large melon, and staggered solemnly down the street, hugging it in his arms. He walked into a little grove of trees and sat down on the ground.

By this time his ideas were extremely vague.

He cut his watermelon in two halves, carving across the middle; he surveyed both ends with ludicrous gravity, cogitating deeply.

Then remembering that he had left his hat in the Shin Bone eating-house, he scooped all the red meat out of one end of his melon, and turned the empty rind over his head, fitting it on his skull like a cap! Thinking at the same time that he needed a chair, he scooped the red meat out of the other end of the melon, and sat down in that half of the empty rind. Having made himself comfortable, he proceeded with his meal!

“Hey!” he bawled to the world at large. “Dinner’s ready! Come an’ git it!”

The thunder roared, and a summer shower, driven before a strong Gulf breeze, swept over Tickfall. It was gone in five minutes, and the moon came out clear and bright, but the rain had drenched Tick Hush to the skin.

“It’s a good thing I fotch my hat out here wid me,” he mumbled, holding the watermelon rind on his head. “I mought ketch cold ef my head gits wet. Gotter take keer of myse’f—gwine git married.”

The cold water had a slightly sobering effect upon him, and he suddenly realized that he was without his coat.

“Dar now! I done lef’ dat coat at Button Hook’s house, an’ I done decided not to marrify Button. Dat’s bad luck! I’ll go ax Skeeter Butts ’bout dat!”

Still holding his watermelon-rind hat upon his wabbly head, he staggered slowly down the street, balancing himself carefully as he walked up the steps of the saloon and entered the swinging door.

Then he stumbled and threw out both hands to steady himself. His unique hat fell to the floor breaking into a hundred fragments, and splashing to all parts of the room. Tick gave a low moan of sorrow, stepped on a piece of the melon, slid about ten feet, and sat down upon the floor with a jolt which almost loosened his ears.

He got to his feet with difficulty, motioned mysteriously to Skeeter, and led the way to the room in the rear.

“Bad luck, Skeeter!” he growled. “I done messed my mattermony up agin.”

“Slop it out!” Skeeter snapped. “Whut you done now?”

“Button Hook is done promise to marry me, an’ Limit Lark is done promise to marry me, an’ Dazzle Zenor is done promise to marry me—leastwise, I think she done it. I cain’t remember real good.”

“Why cain’t you remember?” Skeeter snarled.

“I’s so full of booze my y-ears is stopped up an’ my back teeth is a-floatin’,” Tick explained.

“I know dat! Go on!”

“Whut griefs my mind is dis,” Tick went on. “I lef’ my coat wid dem two marrifyin’ letters in it down at Button’s house; Button is got my wrist-watch, an’ I ain’t gwine marry Button!”

“Aw, good gosh!” Skeeter exclaimed disgustedly.

“Whut is de most properest thing fer me to do nex’, Skeeter?” Tick inquired with alcoholic gravity.

“You better do like a mud-turtle do!” Skeeter snarled.

“How do a mud-turtle ack under dem succumstances?” Tick inquired.

“When a turtle gits in trouble, he puts his hands an’ foots in his pocket, takes a big breath, an’ swallers his head, den he rolls offen a log an’ stays under de water fer fawty days,” Skeeter informed him.

“Dat’s onpossible fer me to do, Skeeter,” Tick replied earnestly. “I’d git drowndead shore, an’ Marse Tom don’t want no harm to happen to me.”

“’Twouldn’t be no great big loss,” Skeeter snapped. “It ’pears to me like I could do widout you powerful easy.”

“De lady folks would miss me,” Tick said with a drunken grin.

“Git outen here, Tick, befo’ I git you put in jail,” Skeeter howled. “You is a noosunce.”

“Don’t go back on yo’ lodge brudder, Skeeter,” Tick begged. “Tell me whut to do to git outen my jam.”

“All right,” Skeeter said ungraciously. “Go down to Button Hook an’ git yo’ coat, yo’ letters, an’ yo’ wrist-watch back—an’ I hopes to Gawd dat Button Hook will chaw you up an’ spit you out!”

“Marse Tom don’t want his pest-house nigger ruint like dat!” Tick protested.

Skeeter pushed him out of the back door and returned to the barroom.

Thus dismissed, Tick went slowly toward the cabin occupied by Button Hook. Then he thought of something which quickened his footsteps and gave him courage.

“I won’t hab no trouble to git my coat back. I jumped through dat winder an’ busted it to smashereens, an’ of co’se it will be open.”

He sneaked up to the house from the side nearest to the woods, and approached the window with the utmost caution. Climbing in over the broken frame, he felt about the room until he located his coat. Thrusting his hand into the inside pocket, he brought it out empty.

“Dey’s gone!” he sighed. “Mo’ an’ mo’ trouble all de time!”

He stood thinking and listening until his attention was attracted by the loud ticking of a clock in the room.

“I gitcher!” he grinned. “Button said she hid de wrist-watch behime de clock.”

He thrust his hand between the wall and the clock, and in a hollow space behind the timepiece, he found the watch and the two envelopes.

“Huh,” he grunted, “dese here is shore my losted letters. De Lawd am shorely wid me.”

Climbing cautiously and noiselessly out of the window, he walked out of the front gate, and, all danger being over, he started jauntily down the street. He felt care-free and happy once more, and he began to sing.

Several hundred yards down the road Button Hook heard him, and concealed herself behind a clump of bushes. She carried a double-barreled, muzzle-loading shotgun, and she had the face and manner of one who was determined to use it.

Button had been hunting through all the negro settlements of the town for the man who was now approaching, singing at the top of his voice. She listened to the song with an ugly smile upon her lips:

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’.”