“When a turtle gits in trouble, he puts his hands an’ foots in his pocket, takes a big breath, an’ swallers his head, den he rolls offen a log an’ stays under de water fer fawty days,” Skeeter informed him.
“Dat’s onpossible fer me to do, Skeeter,” Tick replied earnestly. “I’d git drowndead shore, an’ Marse Tom don’t want no harm to happen to me.”
“’Twouldn’t be no great big loss,” Skeeter snapped. “It ’pears to me like I could do widout you powerful easy.”
“De lady folks would miss me,” Tick said with a drunken grin.
“Git outen here, Tick, befo’ I git you put in jail,” Skeeter howled. “You is a noosunce.”
“Don’t go back on yo’ lodge brudder, Skeeter,” Tick begged. “Tell me whut to do to git outen my jam.”
“All right,” Skeeter said ungraciously. “Go down to Button Hook an’ git yo’ coat, yo’ letters, an’ yo’ wrist-watch back—an’ I hopes to Gawd dat Button Hook will chaw you up an’ spit you out!”
“Marse Tom don’t want his pest-house nigger ruint like dat!” Tick protested.
Skeeter pushed him out of the back door and returned to the barroom.
Thus dismissed, Tick went slowly toward the cabin occupied by Button Hook. Then he thought of something which quickened his footsteps and gave him courage.