“Don’ call it a ‘t’ing,’ massa,” said Quashy, with a dignified look, “call it a ‘veil.’ Dere’s nuflin easier. See here.”
He rose, took off the veil, and flattened the hoops down on each other, so as to drive out all that might be inside. Then he stepped to leeward of the fire, held his breath for a few seconds while in the smoke, quickly adjusted his novel head-piece, and stood up fully armed against the “skeeters.”
“But,” still objected Lawrence, “how can you lay your head on your pillow with such a thing—beg pardon, such a veil on?”
“Nuffin easier, massa.”
He illustrated his point by rolling over into one of the nearest hammocks—which had already been hung—and laying his head down, when, of course, the machine bulged away from his black face, and the discomfited millions kept thrusting their probosces—and, doubtless, making faces at him—ineffectually.
“But how if you should want to roll about in your sleep?” asked Pedro.
“Don’t want to roll about in your sleep!” replied the negro, curtly.
It is right to say that, in spite of the advice thus firmly given, Quashy did roll in his sleep that night, with the result that his nose at last got close to the veil and pressed against it. No malignant foe ever took advantage of an enemy’s weak point more promptly than did the “skeeters” of Quashy’s nocturnal trumpet. They settled on its point with a species of triumphant hum. They warred with each other in their bloodthirsty desire to seize on the delicate but limited morsel. It was “cut and come again”—at least it was “cut away and let others come on”—as long as the chance lasted. And the consequence was that Quashy rose next morning with two noses! His natural nose being a mere lump of fat and the lump raised on it being much the same in form and size with the original, we feel justified in saying that he had two noses—nearly.
Notwithstanding, it is but fair to add that the veils were afterwards pronounced a great success.
But to return.