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.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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!”