Chapter I: Tick Promises

Tick Hush looked like a negro who would work like a horse, and who would do as he was told.

Colonel Tom Gaitskill leaned back in his swivel chair for a comprehensive survey of this new applicant for a job.

He saw a brown-skinned man, with a big round head, a flat nose, heavy lips that were easy-smiling, and eyes which were as wide-open, as simple and innocent as the black, glass eyes of a china doll. He noticed that the man stood perfectly straight, without nervousness, and that his big hands were hard and square--the hands of a willing worker.

“I don’t know nothin’ but how to wuck de lan’, Marse Tom,” Tick told him. “Farmin’ is my trade. So when I heerd tell dat you done bought dat farm whar de ole pest-house was located at, I figgered dat dis wus a chance to git me a good job wid a good boss.”

The speech won Gaitskill’s favor. Negroes are afraid of hospitals, quarantine stations, and graveyards. He had had difficulty in securing a negro tenant for this newly acquired farm because the pest-house occupied a portion of the plantation.

“Aren’t you afraid of that farm, Tick?” Gaitskill smiled.

“Naw, suh,” Tick chuckled. “De cullud folks orate ’bout all dem bad ketchin’ diseases in de pest-house, but I ain’t gwine pester aroun’ in dat neighborhood none.”

Gaitskill determined to test the negro’s sincerity once for all.

“Think of the people who have died out there, Tick,” he said. “When I was a boy there was an epidemic of cholera, and the people died in that old stone house like flies. After that there was yellow fever, and nobody who was taken into that house for quarantine ever came out alive. There have been epidemics of diphtheria, scarlet fever, and smallpox. People are buried all around that quarantine station--you mean to tell me that you are not afraid?”

“Naw, suh, I ain’t skeart,” Tick grinned. “Dem folks is all been dead so long dey done fergot whut dey died of. Dem bad ketchin’ diseases is done kotch on to somebody else by dis time an’ been toted away. Of co’se, I ain’t gwine dig fer no buried money aroun’ dat spot.”

“I’m sure of that,” Gaitskill told him.

“An’ I don’t figger on havin’ much comp’ny out dar,” Tick chuckled. “Niggers ain’t gwine make my place no hangout. Ef I got inter real bad trouble, I might could hide in dat pest-house--nobody ain’t comin’ dar atter me.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Gaitskill smiled. “But I will not object if your idle, loafing friends stay away. At the same time, I presume you will often be lonesome--are you married?”

“Naw, suh.”

Gaitskill leaned back in his chair and tapped the top of the table with the rubber of his pencil.

“Why haven’t you married, Tick?” he inquired.

“Cain’t affode it, Marse Tom.”

“How do you know you can’t?” Gaitskill asked curiously.

“I figgered dat all out once, boss,” Tick grinned. “I wus wuckin’ as a wage-han’ on de Coon-Skin plantation. I tuck a notion I wus qualified to take a wife, I wus shore I could git one, but I warn’t shore I could suppote her.”

“How did you decide that matter?” Gaitskill asked.

“I wus doin’ my own cookin’ an’ livin’ in a cabin by myse’f alone, so I fixed up a way to try it out. I sot two plates at de table. Eve’y time I et a biskit, I sot a biskit on dat yuther plate. Eve’y time I he’ped myse’f to a b’ilin’ of greens, I put some on dat yuther plate. Eve’y time I wanted a corn pone, I baked two in de hot ash, and’ throwed one of ’em out to my houn’ dawg. At de eend of de month I counted up my money whut wus lef’ over, an’--my Gawd, boss--it shore cain’t be did by me. Keepin’ a wife is too blame expenshus.”

Gaitskill pulled his heavy silken mustache down over his mouth to hide his widely smiling lips. Thus disheveled, he resembled a venerable walrus with an amiable disposition. After a while he spoke.

“I want a married man for the quarantine plantation, Tick. There is a good house on the other side of the farm from the pest-house, and there is ample accommodation for cows, chickens, and hogs. There’s a good garden plot and a number of fruit trees. An unmarried man won’t attend to these things, and I want some one who will keep the place up.”

“Dat’s powerful bad news, Marse Tom,” Tick replied as he took a step backward toward the door. “I suttinly had my whole insides sot on gittin’ charge of dat plantation. Yes, suh.”

Gaitskill sat waiting, confidently anticipating Tick’s next remark. The colored man’s mental processes were slow, but at last he arrived.

“Mebbe I might could git me a wife, Marse Tom,” he suggested.

“That’s the very idea I had in mind,” Gaitskill smiled. “If you promise to get married within the next two weeks, I’ll locate you on the pest-house plantation for the next five years.”

“Mebbe no woman won’t take no ole tough gizzard like me,” Tick remarked with humility.

“That’s up to you,” Gaitskill laughed. “I think if you will emphasize the fact that you are getting the management of a good farm, a good house, plenty of fruit, a number of cows, chickens, and a good garden, and the woman is sure that you will put as much on her plate as you do on your own--well, try it, anyway.”

“I’ll shore try it on,” the negro answered with ludicrous solemnity as he turned and started out of the door.

“And, listen, Tick!” Gaitskill exclaimed as he turned to pick up some papers on his desk and resume his interrupted work. “If you find a woman who is willing to marry you, let me know, and I’ll furnish the marriage license--it won’t cost you a cent!”

“Thank ’e, suh!” Tick grinned. “Dat ’ll he’p me a heap!”

Tick passed out of the bank and stood on the street in front of the big plateglass window. He took off his battered wool hat and scratched his woolly head in real perplexity. Certainly, Marse Tom had assigned him a tremendous task.

The world was full of marriageable colored women.

What woman should he ask?

He looked up and down the street with an appraising eye. He could see ten women; some were fat and some were lean, some were kind and some were mean--what kind should he choose?

“Dat white man shore is wropped up my kinky hair with a strong string,” he sighed as he mopped the sweat from his face. “I b’lieve I’ll go ax a few advices outen Skeeter Butts.”