Gaitskill pocketed the license and entered his home. Tick went out on the street and sat down on the pavement curbing with his feet in the gutter.
“Marse Tom is shore messed up dis bizzness awful bad,” he sighed to himself. “Dat white man is chargin’ me a puffeckly good dollar because he made a miscue. Dat ain’t right.”
He thought the matter over for a while and then broke into a low chuckle.
“By gosh, I b’lieve I’ll try dat on.”
He hastened down the street to Skeeter Butts.
“Loant me five dollars, Skeeter!” he exclaimed earnestly. “Marse Tom is done made a mistake wid dat weddin’ paper an’ I wants to git it fixed up right soon. He says it’ll cost me a dollar.”
The name of Gaitskill worked the miracle of liberality in Skeeter, and he handed over the money without a word of protest.
“Now I’s done got financial agin,” Tick panted, as he stepped rapidly along the street.
Suddenly a tremendous idea struck his brain and shocked him to a standstill. He leaned weakly against a convenient fence and waited till he could recover. Then he began to laugh so loud that a number of pickaninnies trotted out of the cabins and came across to where they could observe him with closer scrutiny.
“I’s done thunk up de onliest good idear I’s had sence dis bizziness started,” he exclaimed to himself. “I’s gwine peg it down befo’ de wind blows it away.”