“Well—tell us about it,” Gaitskill said impatiently. “Spill it!”
“You tole me I had to git married, Marse Tom,” Tick began. “I fanciated two nigger womens pretty good, so I writ a letter to bofe of ’em an’ axed ’em to marry me. Bofe of ’em tuck me up on dat.”
“That ought to make you feel happy,” Gaitskill chuckled.
“Naw, suh, it worries me in my mind. You see, bofe dem niggers met me under a sycamo’ tree, an’ one of ’em bragged her brags dat she toted a pistol reg’lar, an’ dey backed me up ag’in’ de chu’ch to pussuade me, an’—an’ a ha’nt come outen de graveyard——”
Tick stopped and chuckled.
“That ha’nt shore done me a good favor. I’d ’a’ been a ha’nt myse’f by now ef he hadn’t showed up so handy.”
“What did you do?” Gaitskill laughed.
“I lef’ dem two nigger womens wid him,” Tick snickered. “Dat ha’nt never could ’a’ kep’ up wid me—he didn’t had no use fer me nohow—an’ I didn’t need him—so I let de lady folks hab him all to deirse’ves.”
“You’ve heard this negro’s testimony, judge. What’s your verdict?” Gaitskill asked smilingly of Judge Henry Lanark, who sat beside him on the porch.
“Thank the Lord, I’m no lunacy jury,” Lanark laughed. Then he asked: “Was one of those women named Limit, Tick?”