"This is to be a sort of dress rehearsal, you see. The next time we come we shall be able to do the thing properly."
"Yes, we've only got the hats and Friday's wig, and the stuff for his face," went on Plunger, as he pitched a brimless felt hat to Harry and clapped one of similar design on his own head. "We mean having the skin coats next time. Here's your wig, Camel—Friday, I mean. Let's see how it fits."
He took from the parcel a wig, which had been skilfully designed from a couple of fluffy woollen table mats, once the property of Mrs. Trounce. Pulling off Hibbert's cap, Plunger fixed this curiously fashioned wig on the boy's head.
"Fits to a T. Doesn't it, Harry?"
Harry nodded.
"Wish we only had a looking-glass here so that you could see yourself in it, Camel," went on Plunger. "You only want painting up a bit, and there you are. Hold your face down while Moncrief puts on the artistic touches."
Hibbert feebly protested. He didn't want his face painted.
"Now, look here, Camel," said Plunger, giving his arm a twist which made him wince, "we're not going to hurt you; so don't be silly. Friday was a savage, you know, and savages don't go about with white faces, and yours is awfully white. Don't be silly, I say."
Hibbert wriggled for a moment, but seeing that it was useless for him to struggle further, gave in with as good grace as possible. Harry at once went to work on his face. First of all greasing it, he next smeared it with burnt cork, until Hibbert was as black as a nigger. Thus blackened, and with the rudely fashioned wig as crown, Hibbert presented a curious appearance indeed. The two burst into laughter when they had finished. Their laughter seemed to echo through the plantation. Suddenly their laughter was checked.
"Did you hear it? Strange, wasn't it?" said Plunger.