“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——”