“All right. You set right here an’ keep on mascoppin’! I’s gwine to Tickfall.”
Skeeter ran the quarter of a mile to Tickfall, jumped into the door of the drug-store, and panted:
“Please, suh, I wants a jar of dat white stuff whut de lady folks puts on deir complexion.”
“Cold cream?” the clerk inquired.
“Naw, suh; it’s a kind of paste whut dey puts on wid a little sponge.”
“I got you,” the clerk answered, reaching up on a shelf and lifting down a jar. “Face enamel. You go’ner try to git white, Skeeter?”
“Naw, suh; nothin’ like dat. Dis is fer a cullud lady pusson,” Skeeter snickered as he laid the money on the counter. “How long do it take dis stuff to dry atter you put it on yo’ mug?”
“About a minute.”
“Kin you gib me a little piece of sponge to smear it on wid?”