Tick. Yes.
Gin. An’ I get ten dollars if de bluff goes?
Tick. That’s right.
Gin. Then you do jes as Ginger Potts tells you. If massa ever find dis job out he’ll jes naterally skin me. I wouldn’t have him know it fur de purtiest twenty-five dollar bill you ever see. Nosiree! Ye see, Mistah Tick, when Cadwalader Topp sees dem corncutters he’ll be too mad to fight. He’ll be madder’n a wet hen. He’ll say dem weepons is unnateral an’ outrageous an’ sich as no gentleman kin use. You got de right to choose de weepins. He raises a bushel of objections an’ you insists. Den you see dah’s no jewel because de gemmen can’t agree on weepins. Ye’s both saved yer honah an’ youah hides.
Tick. That’s a great scheme, Ginger. But suppose he agrees to the weapons. I don’t like the looks of his eye.
Gin. (Puzzled.) Dat’s an extreme case, but if it comes to extreemities, an’ not till den min’ ye, call fur me an’ say you have to insult me.
Tick. Why should I insult you?
Gin. Doesn’t every gentleman insult his second?
Tick. Oh, I see, consult.