“Coco, my maw wus de greates’ hoodoo dorctor in dis parish. When she died she gimme dis jar of hoodoo juice an’ tole me ef I would rub it on de face of de gal I loved dat gal would bust any hoodoo sign in de worl’. I loves you best of all, an’ ef you ain’t got no real good objections I’ll an’int yo’ mug wid dis juice.”
“Do it hurt?” Coco asked.
“Naw!” Skeeter declared.
He took her hand, rubbed the enamel over the back of her wrist, and wiped it off quickly, leaving the skin coal-black as before.
“It makes de hide feel cold like ice,” Coco giggled as she took off her hat and held her head back. “Smear it on thick, Skeeter!”
Skeeter dipped his sponge in the enamel and gladly smeared it on thick. He wiped the mess across the girl’s forehead, down each cheek, and under her chin. The black skin under that whitening made the most poisonous-looking combination imaginable.
“I ain’t gwine put dis close aroun’ yo’ eyes, honey,” Skeeter declared. “I’ll jes’ make a nice roun’ ring roun’ yo’ eyes an’ yo’ mouth because I’s skeart it might sting ef it got in dem places.”
“Smear it on thick, Skeeter,” the girl snickered. “It shore feels cold an’ smells sweet.”
In two minutes Skeeter looked upon the work which his hand had made, and pronounced it very good.
“Dat’ll shore fetch ’em, Coco,” he giggled. “When our mascop shows up all greased wid hoodoo-ile somepin is gwine be doin’ wid dem Sawtown coons!”