“Ax her will she marry you,” Skeeter said.
“Ef she say she will, whut muss I do next?” Tick wanted to know.
“Grab her!” Skeeter cackled. “Swing onto her like a cockle-bur to a woolly dawg’s y-ear!”
“Dat sounds easy!” Tick remarked, in a tone which indicated that he considered the task attended by both difficulty and danger. “I shore hopes I don’t make no miscue!”
“You cain’t make no mistake,” Skeeter grinned. “Womens likes to be hugged. I knows—I done tried it a millyum times. Dat’s yo’ one safe bet!”
“All right!” Tick remarked in a tone indicating that it was all wrong, and he rose reluctantly to his feet. “I’ll try to make de riffle—but you listen out, Skeeter! Ef you hear any real loud hollerin’ up de Shoofly way, you’ll know it’s me! I got a hunch dat de grabbin’ will be on de yuther foot—dat nigger woman is gwine grab me!”
“Dat’ll be best of all,” Skeeter said, with a knowing grin. “Ef she do de grabbin’, dat means you is shore kotch—pervidin’ she don’t bite an’ scratch at de same time.”
Tick slowly retreated from the room, and Skeeter promptly reached for his own hat and started in the same direction.
“Dat po’ fool nigger mought need a little back-up-ance,” said Skeeter, grinning to himself.
In the shadow of the Shoofly church Tick Hush waited, his anxious eyes fixed upon a bench under a sycamore tree where he was to meet and make the final matrimonial arrangements with Limit Lark.