“Wake up, pap,” Button panted when she ran out of the room where Tick had tried to kiss her. “I got somepin to tell you.”
“Whut’s dat?” her parent inquired, rubbing his hands over his face and head and rumpling his hair and whiskers into a frightful disorder. “Whut you want?”
“A nigger man named Tick Hush is asettin’ in de front room an’ he wants to borrer yo’ shotgun,” Button told him.
“Shore!” old Hook exclaimed. “I’ll loant Ticky de gun!”
He hastily lifted the gun down from two nails upon the kitchen wall, and in his frightful disarray, he went prancing into the front sitting-room. When he appeared in the doorway, Tick Hush looked up and beheld a barefooted, shirtless old man, with disheveled hair and beard, holding a double-barreled shotgun, and Tick had just made an unsuccessful attempt to kiss that old gentleman’s lovely daughter!
“My Gawd!” Tick howled. “Somebody is got to take my place right now—it’s vacant!”
He went through the nearest window without taking the trouble to raise the sash. There was a crash of glass, and Tick picked himself up from the ground where he had fallen, and broke the world’s record for a half-mile dash.
He staggered into the Hen-Scratch saloon in the last stages of exhaustion and sank down weakly upon a chair.
Skeeter came and looked the fugitive over. His clothes were torn and covered with dust, and his face and head were bleeding from half a dozen slight cuts.
“Is you hurted, Ticky?” Skeeter asked sympathetically.