When they reached the house, Skeeter picked up the shotgun and, leaving Tick in the machine, he walked through the yard, stamped up the steps and onto the little porch, and knocked loudly and authoritatively upon the door. He heard shuffling noises with low talking, and movements which indicated that the occupants of the house were waking from sleep and getting out of bed.
“Who dar?” old man Hook inquired in a frightened voice.
“Open up!” Skeeter yelled. “I got a little word wid you an’ Button Hook from Sheriff John Flournoy an’ Doc Moseley.”
At this there was a frightened squeal from Button Hook, excited voices talking, swift movement of feet, and the door opened a little crack. Old Hook stuck his corkscrew whiskers through the opening and asked:
“Whut word is sont?”
“I’s got Ticky Hush out here in Sheriff John Flournoy’s autermobile,” Skeeter announced in a loud voice. “Ticky is been shot two times wid a double-barrel, muzzle-loadin’ shotgun. Nobody ain’t know who done it, but we done foun’ de shotgun, an’ Marse Tom is tryin’ to find out who owns it.”
Button Hook uttered a frightened whine.
“Doc Moseley say Ticky is gittin’ ready to die befo’ mawnin’,” Skeeter resumed. “Ticky ain’t got no kinnery an’ I knowed he wus gwine marry Button Hook, so I fetch him down here so he could die in yo’-all’s house!”
“Gawda’mighty, naw!” old Hook wailed. “I don’t want no dead nigger in my cabin. Take him somewheres else.”
“It’s Marse John Flournoy’s awders to leave him here wid you-alls!” Skeeter lied.