The grinning clerk tossed him the sponge, and Skeeter went loping down the street to a dry-goods store.
“Gimme a thick, black veil ’bout a yard long!” he exclaimed. “I wants a mournin’ veil!”
With this article clutched in his hand he ran all the way back to the ball game.
“Whut de sco’, Hitch?” he squealed as he ran through the crowd.
“Twenty-eight to nothin’ favor erf de Sawtowns,” Hitch grunted with a malignant stare at Skeeter. “You better git busy, Skeeter Butts, an’ bust dis hoodoo—ef it is a hoodoo. Dese here niggers wut bet deir money is ackin’ powerful peevish an’ specify dat you done sold ’em out—I favors dat view myse’f.”
“Dat’s jes’ de way wid niggers,” Skeeter whined. “Dey been winnin’ money offen dis nine all summer, an’ now when us is struck a losin’ streak dey talks ’bout mobbin’ me!”
He ran over to where Coco Ferret sat. She looked up and said:
“Whut muss I do, Skeeter? I been tryin’ to mascop, but dat don’t do no good!”
“Come wid me, honey!” Skeeter replied, and led her through the crowd and into the picnic grounds, where a growth of underbrush screened them from view.
There he produced his jar of face-enamel, and explained: