“Certainly not. I’ll leave that to my betters! You just get home as fast as you can.”
“Gee! but you’re white all right—you know it didn’t say nothing in the book, about what kind of paint to use!”
Maxwell’s eyes opened. “What book are you talking about, Nickey?” he asked.
“The one you let me take, with the Indians in it.”
Maxwell had to laugh again. “So that’s where the idea for this ‘Carnival of Wild West Sports’ originated, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” Nickey nodded. “Everybody wanted to be the tattooed man, but seeing as I had the book, and old Charley was my horse, I couldn’t see any 158 good reason why I shouldn’t get tattooed. Gee! I’ll bet ma will be mad!”
After being properly vested in a cassock two sizes too large for him, Nickey started on a dead run for home, and, having reached the barn, dressed himself in his customary attire. When he appeared at supper Mrs. Burke did not say anything; but after the dishes were washed she took him apart and listened to his version of the affair.
“Nicholas Burke,” she said, “if this thing occurs again I shall punish you in a way you won’t like.”
“Well, I’m awfully sorry,” said Nickey, “but it didn’t seem to feaze Mr. Maxwell a little bit. He just sat and roared as if he’d split his sides. I guess I ’aint goin’ to be put out of the church just yet, anyway.”
Mrs. Burke looked a bit annoyed.