“Yes’m,” Tick plunged on. “You an’ me is gwine git married. It’s Marse Tom Gaitskill’s awders—de Kunnel, an’ Jedge Henry Lanark, an’ Skeeter Butts—dey all agrees dat it’s shore got to be.”
The girl took a breath of astonishment which threatened to consume all the air in the room.
“Marse Tom says we kin live on de pest-house plantation. Dem deaders buried aroun’ dar won’t gib us no ketchin’ disease. We got a good cabin an’ plenty to eat, an’ I’ll make plenty dollars.”
Then while Button Hook still gasped for air, Tick stood up. He assumed Dazzle Zenor’s best stage manner, and swept down upon Button Hook to give her an imitation of Dazzle Zenor’s best stage kiss.
And Button did just what Tick had done—she bolted.
She ran out of the room and left Tick to embrace the empty air.
“Huh!” Tick grunted. “Dazzle should had gib me anodder lesson so I would know whut to do now.”
The windows in the room were closed tight, and Tick felt extremely warm. He tramped the floor for a few minutes, then took off his coat and hung it across the back of a chair.
“I reckin I better make myse’f at home an’ wait till Buttons gits back,” he soliloquized. “I don’t know whut else to do. Mebbe she’ll come back some time to-day.”
In the rear of the house, Button’s father was lying asleep on a pallet on the porch. He was an old man with long woolly hair, and long cork-screw whiskers; his feet were bare, and his body was clothed with a pair of ragged pantaloons and a soiled, patched, yellowish undershirt.