Chapter VIII: “what’s in a Name?”

Colonel Tom Gaitskill left the bank and walked across the street to the office of the clerk of the Third District Court.

“I want a colored marriage license, Mack,” he remarked as he leaned against the desk and began the ceremonial process of lighting a big cigar.

The deputy clerk grinned and opened a big book.

“What’s the man’s name?” he asked.

“Tick Hush.”

“Who’s the lady of color?” the clerk inquired, as his pen scratched on the paper.

Gaitskill’s hand paused, holding a lighted match about two inches from the end of his cigar. He held it there until the flame scorched his fingers. He dropped the match and sucked the blisters, uttering sundry expletives as sulfurous as the head of the match. Then he gave himself up to thought.

“Let me see,” he said. “Do you know I forgot to ask that negro what woman he was going to marry?”

He struck another match and lighted his cigar. He puffed like a steamboat for a minute, and spoke again:

“I was talking to Tick last night and he mentioned two negro women, Limit and Vakey. Now I wonder which one he decided to marry?”

“Which is the best cook?” the clerk grinned.

“Limit Lark, I presume,” the Colonel answered. “Limit cooks for Judge Lanark--ah, that’s the one. I remember now, because Judge Lanark was sitting on the porch with me at the time and I heard him complain that he was about to lose his cook--make out the license for Tick Hush and Limit Lark!”

The clerk quickly completed the document, collected two dollars and fifty cents of the banker’s money, and handed over the long envelope.

“How many of these licenses have you bought in your life, Mr. Gaitskill?”

“Two barrels full,” Gaitskill chuckled. “It’s a good investment. Courthouse marriages, as the negroes call them, stick better, and the negroes seem to get along with less fuss.”

Slipping the envelope in his pocket, he walked out. When he reached his home about dark, he found Tick Hush sitting under a tree waiting for him.

“Did you git dem pair of marriage license, Marse Tom?” Tick asked eagerly.

“Here is the document,” Gaitskill said, handing it to the grinning negro.

Tick seized it with trembling fingers, opened it hastily, then glared at it with popping eyeballs.

“Lawdymussy, Marse Tom!” he exclaimed. “You done had dem license made out fer de wrong gal.”

“How’s that?”

“Yes, suh, dat’s suttingly a miscue, kunnel. Dis paper says dat I’s gwine marry Limit Lark, but de real gal is Button Hook!”

“Aw, shucks!” Gaitskill exclaimed disgustedly. “I couldn’t remember what the woman’s name was. I don’t think you ever mentioned Button Hook to me. Give that paper back. I’ll have it changed.”

“Will it cost some more money to git it changed, kunnel?”

“I suppose the clerk will charge about a dollar for his extra work,” Gaitskill said. “I think I’ll let you pay that dollar--you ought to have telephoned me the woman’s name.”

Gaitskill pocketed the license and entered his home. Tick went out on the street and sat down on the pavement curbing with his feet in the gutter.

“Marse Tom is shore messed up dis bizzness awful bad,” he sighed to himself. “Dat white man is chargin’ me a puffeckly good dollar because he made a miscue. Dat ain’t right.”

He thought the matter over for a while and then broke into a low chuckle.

“By gosh, I b’lieve I’ll try dat on.”

He hastened down the street to Skeeter Butts.

“Loant me five dollars, Skeeter!” he exclaimed earnestly. “Marse Tom is done made a mistake wid dat weddin’ paper an’ I wants to git it fixed up right soon. He says it’ll cost me a dollar.”

The name of Gaitskill worked the miracle of liberality in Skeeter, and he handed over the money without a word of protest.

“Now I’s done got financial agin,” Tick panted, as he stepped rapidly along the street.

Suddenly a tremendous idea struck his brain and shocked him to a standstill. He leaned weakly against a convenient fence and waited till he could recover. Then he began to laugh so loud that a number of pickaninnies trotted out of the cabins and came across to where they could observe him with closer scrutiny.

“I’s done thunk up de onliest good idear I’s had sence dis bizziness started,” he exclaimed to himself. “I’s gwine peg it down befo’ de wind blows it away.”

He went straight to the kitchen of Judge Henry Lanark, where Limit Lark was serving as cook. He held an earnest and satisfactory conversation with her for about five minutes, and then hurried to the home of Colonel Gaitskill. Gaitskill was sitting upon the front porch.

“Marse Tom,” Tick began eagerly, “is you had dem license changed yit?”

“No.”

“I’s glad of dat, kunnel,” Tick chuckled. “I don’t want ’em changed a-tall!”

“Why is that?”

“I done decided to marry Limit Lark, Marse Tom,” Tick explained. “I talked it up wid Limit an’ she agreed wid me.”

“I thought you loved Button Hook,” Gaitskill protested.

“I does love her pretty good, kunnel,” Tick snickered. “But I been thinkin’ it over, an’ you wus gwine charge me a dollar to change de names in dem license, an’ I figger dat dar ain’t a dollar’s wuth of diffunce between dem two nigger womens!”

Having made this arrangement by which he had secured a marriage license, the promise of a wife, the loan of five dollars which he never expected to repay, and the saving of one dollar of his funds, Tick sauntered away with a big chunk of tobacco in his cheek and a large gob of peace in his soul.

Which goes to show that Tick’s social education was progressing.

In the mean time, Button Hook was carefully cleaning up the room in her home for the entertainment of Tick Hush when he fulfilled his promise to call that night and make the final arrangements for their wedding.

In that same room, Button found Tick’s coat. He had not taken it with him when her father appeared with the shotgun.

With her first thought of wifely care, she picked up the coat, brushed it until it was free from dust, then gave it a hard shake.

Two letters fell to the floor.

Button stooped and picked them up. One was addressed to Miss Limit Lark, and the other to Miss Vakey Vapp.

Then, with true wifely curiosity, Button opened both letters and read them. Except for the superscription, they were exactly the same.

Almost every sentence was preceded by the word--“say.” Button could not understand that, for she did not know that Tick had dictated while Skeeter had written the letters, and Skeeter was not experienced in writing dictation.

Here is an absolutely accurate transcription of what Button read:

* * * * *

D one

say this thought come to Me to Address you of Helth this Letr im wel and i truste this wil find you Enjoin Life

say i aint so faraway i cant come & see you but dont thing Hord of me for Not coming i were call away i wil Be Back to Morrer Nite

say if you want to See Me i want to See You the yorse in the world but i Wil Weight ontil i Here from you

say i want to ef you have Made up yo mine at Marring i want to Before Ten Das i Got a Job at Moss Tm Gatskills farm wher the pess Hous is at say the farm is only 8 Mile from you it is a short Diston if you want to see it say if you want to come out Here and look at the Plase i wil take you say im fixt to go to Work Now say im runing the Pest Farm im Geting 15D a month

say B swete as you can B

say we wil Do fine when we ar working to Gether

say i am making all these Dols for you & i and Dont tel me Noh because i M Bisnes.

say i am Not Goin With No other one i Have my Hold Hart & mine on you & no other

say if you say Yess meat me at sickmore tre Behine the Shoefli ch to Morrer Nite say I am looking for you at the ch

say Dont lett me be DCd in you

yos T

Tick Hush

* * * * *

When Button had deciphered this communication she placed both letters back in their envelopes and hid them behind the clock. Then she removed the little brass wrist-watch which Tick had given her from her arm and placed that with the two letters.

After that she turned around and addressed aloud the chair upon which Tick’s coat had rested:

“I wonder whut pap done wid dat double-barrel shotgun of his’n?”

She threw Tick’s coat disdainfully upon the floor, and stamped it with her feet.

“I’s gwine vowlate de law!” she announced. “I’s gwine scramble de remainders of Tick Hush all over Tickfall. Ef dey gits enough of him to hold a funeral over, dey’ll have to mop de pieces up wid a rag!”

She walked back to the porch in the rear of the house, and lifted down the heavy muzzle-loading shotgun. She examined it carefully, muttering threats.

“Lemme think,” she mumbled. “I b’lieve pap said when you gits ready to shoot you cocks back bofe hammers an’ pulls bofe triggers!”

She stepped out into the yard, the gun resting upon her arm.

“Soon as it gits good dark, I’ll start,” she murmured. “I muss git him befo’ de moon rises!”