Chapter II: Skeeter Helps

No one knows how Skeeter Butts got his reputation among the members of his race as the possessor of supernal wisdom. Nevertheless, in every emergency it was their custom to ask Skeeter Butts, and Skeeter was always there with the good advice.

Inexpert physicians frequently say to their patients, “I’ll try this medicine, and if it don’t do the work, I’ll change to something else.” Skeeter followed the same method with his advice. With the inexpert physician, too, often one medicine calls for another; always with Skeeter, one suggestion led to another; and the reason with both was the same--because dangerous complications “set up.”

On matrimonial matters, Skeeter was supposed to be extremely wise.

He had courted every woman in Tickfall and its environs without actually committing matrimony. His experiences had been many and varied, and highly educational. So when Tick Hush appeared in the Hen-Scratch saloon with a look of perplexed melancholy upon his brown face, Skeeter at once heated up his mental incubator to hatch out a few rare thoughts.

“Dis here is a awful mess, Skeeter,” Tick began as he held an ill-smelling perique stogie between his stiff and trembling lips. “Marse Tom Gaitskill is shore kotch my tail in a cuttin’-box.”

“How come?” Skeeter asked.

“He offered me a job on de pest-house plantation pervidin’ only but dat I gits married inside two weeks.”

“Dat’s easy,” Skeeter grinned. “Lady folks is crazy ’bout steppin’ off, an’ anybody kin git married.”

“How is dat did?” Tick asked.

“At de fust off-startin’, you seleck a woman whut you wants to marry,” Skeeter suggested.

“Dat gits me in a jam right now,” Tick mourned. “I’s powerful fondish on two nigger women.”

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter grunted. “Dat looks like cormpilations mought set up an’ us ’ll hab plenty doin’s. Name de femaleses!”

“Limit Lark an’ Vakey Vapp,” Tick told him.

“Gosh!” Skeeter sighed. “Why cain’t you rattle de bones, or cut cyards, or flop up a jitney, an’ decide which am de whicher?”

“’Tain’t pious,” Tick replied.

“You needn’t let dat pester you,” Skeeter cackled. “Ary one of dem womens will make you lose yo’ religium powerful soon atter you marries ’em.”

“Cain’t you think up no highbrow way of deecidin’?” Tick inquired.

“Suttinly,” Skeeter snapped. “But I don’t think brains he’ps a man whut’s got his mind sot on mettermony. Look at me--I’s a smart, up-to-date, new-issue nigger--an’ I cain’t git married to nothin’! Brains don’t git me even a two-times, secont-han’, hand-me-down widder!”

“Dat’s because you is too choosey,” Tick grinned.

“Mebbe so,” Skeeter replied, as he applied his mind to the problem before him. At last he suggested:

“How would it suit to write a letter to one of dem niggers an’ ax her to marry you?”

“Dat don’t he’p me,” Tick explained. “Ef I knowed which one to write to fust, I’d know which one to ax fust----”

“I sees,” Skeeter interrupted. “You likes ’em bofe alike, each one as much as de yuther. Well--whichsomever one you take, you’ll wish to Gawd you’d tuck de yuther one--lemme think!”

Skeeter lighted a cigarette and rubbed his nervous hands over his closely cropped head. Then he jumped to his feet with a yelp.

“I got it, Ticky!” he squealed. “Dis here is a histidious notion--listen. You an’ me will write a letter to bofe dem nigger womens. Den we’ll git a nigger whut cain’t read ner write to pick out one of dem letters outen a hat. De letter whut de igernunt coon picks out is de one to be sont.”

“Listen to dat!” Tick Hush applauded. “Dat sounds real cute. Git some paper an’ a writin’ pencil!”

Skeeter found two soiled envelopes, a writing-pad and the stub of a pencil. Sitting down at a table, he arranged them carefully, and said:

“You do de heavy thinkin’, Ticky, while I writes!”

Tick Hush rose to his feet and began a nervous pacing up and down beside the table. He cleared his throat, wiped the sweat from his face, fanned himself with his hat, took off one brogan shoe and shook the gravel out of it.

Skeeter Butts sat and waited.

At length, Tick straightened up, breathed like a husky bellows, and began:

“Dear Limit--” Then he broke off to ask: “How’m I gittin’ along so fur, Skeeter?”

“Dat’s a fine start-off,” Skeeter assured him. “I think she’ll kotch on to dat easy.”

“Say, ‘I wants to git married right away’--hold on, Skeeter!” Tick exclaimed in a sudden panic. “Don’t be so peart ’bout writin’ how soon--tell her atter while, befo’ long, when I kin git aroun’ to it, when de craps is all in, or somepin like dat.”

“Naw!” Skeeter retorted as he began to write. “Tell her de real facks: ‘I wants to git married in de nex’ ten days.’”

“O Lawdy,” Tick sighed. “Dat sounds powerful early to me!”

“Go on!” Skeeter snapped.

“Say, ‘I hopes--I hopes--I hopes----’”

“Shut up!” Skeeter snapped. “You sound like a danged ole donkey brayin’--you don’t hope nothin’! Tell on!”

“Say, ‘Me an’ Skeeter--us thinks you-all oughter marry us’!” Tick Hush dictated.

Skeeter Butts laid aside his pencil and leaned back, glaring at Tick with mingled pity and contempt.

“You is de worst igermus I knows of, Ticky Hush!” he squealed. “Ef you an’ me wus to swap heads, I’d die a durn fool! Stop talkin’ wid yo’ mouth an’ think!”

Thus admonished, Tick Hush took a big breath and a tidal wave of dictation splashed all around the head of Skeeter Butts.

“Say, ‘Will you marry me real soon?’ Say, ‘I got a job on Marse Tom Gaitskill’s pest-house farm.’ Say, ‘I’ll take you out to see de place.’ Say, ‘We lives togedder--plenty money, plenty eats. Answer prompt! Yours--yo’ husbunt--yo----’”

“Naw!” Skeeter interrupted. “You don’t want no answer through de mail-box--tell her to meet you somewhar to-morrer night, ef she is willin’ to take you on!”

“Dat’s right!” Tick agreed. Then he dictated: “Say, ‘Answer prompt. Ef you is willin’, meet me to-morrer night behime de Shoofly church under dat big sycamo’ tree. Yours truly Tick Hush.”

“Dat’s de way to talk it,” Skeeter applauded. “Ef you wants a hoe-cake, reach out yo’ hand fer it. Now wait a minute till I copy dis same letter, because we got to hab two.”

When Skeeter had made the copy, he addressed the two envelopes and slipped one message into each, being extremely careful not to get the letters mixed and put them in the wrong envelopes.

“Now, Skeeter,” Ticky asked, “who we gwine git to pick out dis letter?”

“Little Bit cain’t read nothin’,” Skeeter suggested.

“Let him pick,” Tick agreed.

In answer to Skeeter’s call, a diminutive, bullet-headed boy came from the rear room and picked up a white envelope.

“Dat’s all, Little Bit!” Skeeter told him. “You git!”

With the nervous solemnity of a man who was determining the destiny of two lives, Skeeter turned the envelope so he could see the address.

“It’s de letter to Limit Lark,” he almost whispered.

Tick Hush sighed deeply.

“Dat’s fine, Skeeter,” he said in a low voice. “I sorter hoped it’d be Limit Lark, an’ I’d be plum’ happy ef she takes me--only but now I kinder wish de yuther woman hadn’t drawed no blank.”

“Mebbe Limit won’t take you an’ dat ’ll gib you a shot at de yuther gal,” Skeeter said hopefully. “Lemme see. Limit wucks fer Judge Lanark. I’ll write his name on one corner of dis, an’ dey ’ll put de letter in de judge’s box.”

Skeeter stamped the envelope and called Little Bit.

“Take dis right straight to de post-office, boy,” he commanded.

“Much obleeged, Skeeter,” Tick said as he started out. “Dat he’ps a mighty load offen my mind.”

When Tick Hush had gone, Skeeter stood fumbling with the letter addressed to Vakey Vapp. He placed a stamp upon it. Then a slow grin spread over his face.

“It’s a plum’ pity dat Vakey Vapp don’t git no letter,” he murmured. “I’s gwine down an’ mail dis letter to her as soon as Little Bit gits back. Bofe dem womans cain’t want Tick, an’ ’twon’t do no harm. Mebbe it’ll do a large amount of great good.”