He laid his black veil on Coco’s lap.
“Now, honey, you let dat juice dry a minute, den you put dat veil over yo’ hat an’ down over yo’ face.”
Skeeter helped her to adjust the veil, and they were ready.
Ecstatic whoops from the Sawtown team came to their ears, informing them that the massacre was still in progress.
The score stood thirty-seven to nothing in favor of Sawtown, and the Sawtown captain grew weary of the game.
“You fellers stop hittin’ dat ball! We got to play at least five innings befo’ we kin be shore of gittin’ our bet-money,” he bellowed. “Us is done got ’em beat—fan out! Eve’y batter is ordered to fan out!”
“Dat’s suits me,” Skeeter snickered as this command was expressed loud enough for everyone to hear. “Dey’ll change deir tune in a minute. Dey’ll want to hit de ball an’ cain’t!”
The Sawtown batters, responsive to the captain’s order, went out—one, two, three.
Again Tickfall was at the bat—the last half of the second inning.
“Now, Coco,” Skeeter said as a scar-faced negro named Possum picked up the bat and went to the plate. “Dis is yo’ time to git busy an’ save de day. You stand over dar—as close to fust base as you kin git. I’s gwine over an’ stand by third base. Don’t you raise up yo’ veil until I gives de sign.”