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!”