“Who’s the lady of color?” the clerk inquired, as his pen scratched on the paper.
Gaitskill’s hand paused, holding a lighted match about two inches from the end of his cigar. He held it there until the flame scorched his fingers. He dropped the match and sucked the blisters, uttering sundry expletives as sulfurous as the head of the match. Then he gave himself up to thought.
“Let me see,” he said. “Do you know I forgot to ask that negro what woman he was going to marry?”
He struck another match and lighted his cigar. He puffed like a steamboat for a minute, and spoke again:
“I was talking to Tick last night and he mentioned two negro women, Limit and Vakey. Now I wonder which one he decided to marry?”
“Which is the best cook?” the clerk grinned.
“Limit Lark, I presume,” the Colonel answered. “Limit cooks for Judge Lanark—ah, that’s the one. I remember now, because Judge Lanark was sitting on the porch with me at the time and I heard him complain that he was about to lose his cook—make out the license for Tick Hush and Limit Lark!”
The clerk quickly completed the document, collected two dollars and fifty cents of the banker’s money, and handed over the long envelope.
“How many of these licenses have you bought in your life, Mr. Gaitskill?”
“Two barrels full,” Gaitskill chuckled. “It’s a good investment. Courthouse marriages, as the negroes call them, stick better, and the negroes seem to get along with less fuss.”