“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?”