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:
“Look on de sunny side,
Git on de sunny side,
Stay on de sunny side
Of life!”
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!”