“Come away from dis pest-house, Tick!” Skeeter snapped as soon as the ceremony was ended. “I been skeart to death fer eve’y minute I been here, an’ I’s smoked cigareetes to keep de ketchin’ miseries away till I sees double!”
The two men ran up the hill toward Limit Lark.
Limit took one horrified look at her husband’s face and reeled backward.
Dazzle Zenor had failed to tell Tick how to get the make-up off his face, and now he was an awful looking thing.
He had rubbed the various paints with a dry cloth and had made a horrifying smear; he had washed the paints with hot and cold water, and some of the colors had “run,” and the effect was one which would make any alcoholic imagine he had ’em again and mount the water-wagon.
“My Gawd, Ticky!” Limit shrieked. “How come you got yo’ face in such a devilish mess?”
“I’s had bad luck, honey,” Tick said mournfully. “I s’pose I got to wait till dis paint wears off!”
“You ain’t nothin’ but a gorm!” Limit shrieked. “You look like a Whut-is-it in a circus show!”
“Cain’t he’p it, honey,” Tick replied. “It’ll wear off in about six months!”
“Dat’s right!” Vinegar Atts howled. “Marse Tom Gaitskill sent word by me dat you two niggers is in quaremtime fer six months. Ef you or Limit comes to town, he’ll hab you put in de jailhouse.”