“Everything in this show-case comes up to your specifications in one respect,” the clerk said flippantly. “There’s mighty little gold about the stuff. What do you fancy?”
“Dunno, suh. I wants a view from you on dat.”
“I’ve got it,” the clerk said, as he lifted out a piece of jewelry and held it up for inspection. “A wrist watch—just the thing—all the women wear them and every woman is crazy about them.”
“How much do dat’n cost?” Tick inquired.
“Four-ninety-eight—let you have it for five dollars, cash!” the clerk responded.
“Thank ’e, suh. Dat’s about de size of my little dab of money. Please wrop it up in a real nice box.”
The clerk polished the piece of jewelry, wrapped it neatly, and Tick started for the home of Button Hook with the package in his hip pocket.
Button lived on the edge of the negro settlement known as Hell’s Half-Acre, and Tick had no trouble learning whether or not she was at home, for he heard her voice, as high and as strident as the call of the katydid, singing a song which assured him:
“O love’s my meat, an’ love’s my drink, an’ love’s my daily fare—an’ Love an’ me walks han’ in han’ when I has a han’ to spare!”