“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.