Early the next morning Tick Hush appeared at the Hen-Scratch saloon and found Skeeter Butts nursing a grouch and sundry bruises, all of which he had received in his wild flight through the graveyard.
“Whut you showin’ up here fer?” Skeeter snarled.
“Troubles,” Tick told him.
“I’m got ’em of my own,” Skeeter snapped. “Don’t pesticate me.”
“You’s de only good-advicin’ nigger in Tickfall, Skeeter,” Tick said earnestly. “Ef a feller cain’t ax you ’terrogations, he mought as well go out an’ suicide hisse’f!”
“Ain’t it de trufe!” Skeeter grinned, greatly mollified by this praise. “Whut ails you now?”
“I had a leetle talk wid Limit an’ Vakey las’ night, an’ I done decided to cut ’em bofe out. Dey argufies pretty sharp yistiddy evenin’. One of ’em applied at me wid a big gun—I don’t favor dat kind of nigger.”
“Ef you is done got dat wise, you don’t need no more advices,” Skeeter grinned. “Eve’y nigger woman argufies wid guns an’ razors an’ skillets, an’ truck like dat. Of co’se, ef you cuts all dat out, dat means you ain’t gwine hitch double wid nobody.”
“But I got to marry!” Tick exclaimed. “Marse Tom specify——”
“All right!” Skeeter interrupted tartly. “Who am de choosen woman now?”