“Naw!” Daddy Hook squalled. “Dis fambly ain’t gwine be home in de mawnin’—us is gittin’ ready trabble to right now, an’ we’s fixin’ to take a soon start!”
“Does you know who dis shotgun belongs to?” Skeeter asked, producing the gun with a dramatic flourish.
“Naw!” Daddy Hook wailed, motioning Skeeter away. “Ain’t never seed dat gun befo’.”
A frightened wail sounded behind old man Hook, informing Skeeter that Button was being strongly affected by what she heard.
“All right!” Skeeter said, as if in doubt what to do next. “I’ll go tell Marse John Flournoy dat you-all won’t take Tick in. I reckon him an’ Marse Tom Gaitskill will come right down an’ cornverse you-all about it. De Sheriff don’t take no nigger foolishness.”
Skeeter turned and walked away. When he got to the automobile it was empty. Tick had climbed out and had hidden behind the same stump which had served him when he delivered the wrist-watch to Button Hook. As Skeeter cranked the machine, Tick emerged from his hiding-place and climbed back into the car.
“Now, Ticky,” Skeeter said when they were once more in the saloon and had sat down. “A long time befo’ mawnin’, Button Hook an’ all dat crowd will be gittin’ to some place fur away in a mighty big hurry. Dey’ll trabble wid a looseness, an’ dey won’t look back, an’ dey won’t never come back.”
“Dey won’t make me mad ef dey stays away,” Tick spoke, trying to grin through his cut and plaster-covered lips.
“Dat saves yo’ life, an’ it gits you good riddunce of one of yo’ to-be wives!”
“Thank ’e, suh,” Tick said gratefully. “You shore is a noble nigger man!”