Butts, is you made me look like de debbil’s wife on purpose?”
“Sure!” Skeeter whooped. “I wus ’bout to lose my bets--fawty dollars
fer me an’ ten fer you----”
“Is you made me look like dis to save you money?” Coco demanded in
irate tones. “You treat yo’ gwine-be wife like dat?”
“Yes’m!” Skeeter shrieked amid his paroxysms of laughter. “Oh, my honey
bird--you is de dangest sight ever I did see since de day I wus borned
on--whoop-ee!”
Coco suddenly snatched open the drawer of her bureau, and Skeeter saw
the malignant gleam of a nickel-plated, pearl-handled revolver.
“Murder-r-r!” he shrieked as he shot through the door with the speed of
a comet.
As he passed out of the door a bullet flattened against the jamb close
to his face.
As he passed through the yard gate the splinters from two more bullets
were shattered from the posts close beside him.
As he galloped wildly down the street two more bullets kicked up the
dust around his flying feet.
He bounced through the swinging doors of the Hen-Scratch saloon and
found his establishment crowded with negroes demanding back the money
they had bet.
“All bets is declared off, niggers!” Skeeter panted.
He sank weakly into a chair, wiped the sweat from his face with a
trembling hand, fanned himself with his hat for a moment, then made
another announcement:
“All my weddin’ arrangements is declared off, too, niggers!”
“How come?” the Rev. Vinegar Atts demanded, saddened by the loss of a
wedding fee.
Skeeter panted for breath, and finally explained:
“Dat female mascop is done jinxed me!”
Messing with Matrimony
I
TICK PROMISES
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