I

“I’s glad de kunnel an’ ole miss is gone to N’Awleens,” Hopey Prophet remarked as she sank her thickly upholstered body into a deeply upholstered chair in the Gaitskill drawing-room. “I likes to take a seat an’ set down in de white folks’ parlor an’ ack white.”

“If de kunnel knowed we wus settin’ in dis boodwar, he’d bu’st our necks,” Dazzle Zenor giggled as she sat down on the stool at the grand piano and ran her slim ebony fingers over the white keys.

“I’ll shore fergit to tell him whar we spent our time while he wus gone,” Hopey chuckled, as she raised herself from the chair and waddled across the room to turn on all the electric lights. “Whut Marse Tom ain’t know won’t hurt us.”

“I needs a beau to entertain me in dis nice room,” Dazzle smiled, looking up at the chandelier now blazing with light. “All dis noble arrangement is wasted on me ’thout no man to see me in de middle of it.”

“Dat remark shows dat Skeeter Butts is still pesterin’ yo’ mind,” Hopey told her. “Ef he takes a notion to pay a call-visit, I’ll shore set right here an’ chapperoon him.”

“Us won’t need you,” the girl remarked in a dreamy tone as she ran her fingers down the keyboard of the piano. “Skeeter shore do look brave in his soldier suit.”

“Brave!” Hopey snorted. “Brave! Dat Skeeter Butts is de biggest coward in de Nunited States of Loozanny!”

“He ain’t!” Dazzle protested.

“He am!” Hopey insisted, nodding her big head on her fat shoulders. “Skeeter ain’t never seed nothin’ in his life dat he wusn’t skeart of. He’s a nachel-bawn ’fraid-cat!”

“I don’t b’lieve dat,” Dazzle snapped. “Didn’t he go off an’ jine de army at de fust off-startin’ of de war?”

“Suttin he did!” Hopey chuckled. “But how come? Three nigger womens wus in dis town on de very same day; each one had a weddin’ license to marry Skeeter Butts—an’ you wus one of dem three womens! An’ whut did Skeeter up an’ do?”

“He volunteered to jine de army.”

“Shore! He wus forced to volunteer! Don’t dat show he’s a coward an’ a ’fraid-cat?” Hopey howled. “Why didn’t he stay in Tickfall like a brave man an’ marry dem three nigger womens?”

“He didn’t run because he wus skeart,” Dazzle asserted in Skeeter’s defense. “He jined de army because a lifelong war wid three nigger women wifes is too much of a muchness fer even a brave soldier like Skeeter.”

“I wish dat Mr. Bill Kaiser’s war had kotch him,” Hopey growled disloyally. “I bet dem Hunches would ’a’ throwed a skeer into Skeeter dat mought ’a’ skeart all de skeer out of him.”

“Skeeter wus a brave soldier,” Dazzle repeated obstinately.

“Soldier!” Hopey repeated with a contemptuous sniff. “Skeeter wusn’t nothin’ but a boot-black in de army, totin’ pink notes to de kunnel fer de lady folks.”

“Skeeter told me dat him an’ de military kunnel looked fer Mr. Bill Kaiser eve’ywhar,” Dazzle informed her. “It wus Mr. Bill dat wus skeart of Skeeter. He hid out, an’ Skeeter couldn’t connect up wid him or find him nowhars. Skeeter is a dangersome nigger.”

“Skeeter wus jes’ tryin’ to locate Mr. Kaiser so he would know whut place to stay away from,” Hopey growled. “He imagined he warn’t skeart of de Hunches, but he warn’t aimin’ to let de Hunches run him.”

“’Tain’t so,” Dazzle answered sharply. “I bet ef I wus in danger right now, Skeeter would come up here an’ rescue me.”

“Suttinly,” Hopey grumbled. “Fust-off, he’d break a leg runnin’ up to Sheriff Flournoy’s orfice to git de sheriff to he’p him, because he growed up in Marse John’s house, an’ he is de sheriff’s little pet nigger. Next-off, he’d git all de white folks an’ niggers in town and lead ’em up on dis hill. Den he’d sneak aroun’ behime a tree an’ wait till de rookus wus over, an’ at de last he’d hop in an’ ack like he done it all!”

Dazzle was angry. She glared at Hopey with fine rage, and tried to think of something to say that would crush the fat woman flat. But nothing but a falling planet would ever flatten Hopey, so that young colored actress with several histrionic manifestations of intense indignation flounced out of the room, followed by the exasperating chuckles of the victorious Hopey Prophet.

In the rear hallway Dazzle paused at sight of the telephone. Her milk-white teeth gnawed at her lower lip as she debated something in her mind. Then, with an air of decision, she sat down at the desk and lifted the receiver from the hook.

“Central, I wants to talk to de Hen-Scratch saloon, please, ma’am!”

After a moment’s wait something popped in her ear, and a voice spoke: “Hello!”

“Is dat you, Skeeter Butts? Listen! Dis here am Dazzle Zenor. I’s at Marse Tom Gaitskill’s home wid Hopey Prophet. Somebody is tryin’ to bu’st in dis house an’ rob it——”

A squealing shriek sounded so sharply in Dazzle’s ear that she jerked her head away from the receiver, ceased speaking, and waited until the vocal disturbances had subsided.

“Dey is tryin’ to bu’st in de front door, Skeeter!” Dazzle told him. “Me an’ Hopey lef’ de kitchen door onlocked so Vinegar Atts could come in when he got back. Ef dem robbers goes aroun’ to de back side de house, dey’ll shore git in. Come up here right away an’ rescue us!”

A squealing interrogation sounded through the phone, and Dazzle smiled as she answered:

“Dar ain’t more’n seven robbers, Skeeter. But you kin lick ’em like you done in de army. Don’t git skeart!”

Although Skeeter’s reply was not intelligible, his shrieking voice, in reply, was audible even in the drawing-room, where Hopey sat shaking like a jelly-bowl with laughter.

“Come all alone by yo’se’f, Skeeter!” Dazzle implored him. “Us don’t want no crowd up here an’ no excitemunt. Don’t tell no white folks!”

Dazzle paused to listen to a few more excited squawkings from the telephone, then she commanded:

“Come by yo’se’f, an’ come in a hurry, befo’ I gits kilt! Fer Gawd’s sake, hurry, Skeeter!”

She left the telephone and entered the room where Hopey sat, smiling with great satisfaction.

“You done played a fool now!” Hopey told her.

Dazzle preened herself before a mirror in preparation for Skeeter’s arrival.

“Skeeter’s comin’, Hopey,” Dazzle giggled. “’Tain’t no matter how big a coward a feller is, he’s afraid to cornfess dat he’s a ’fraid-cat!”

II

Skeeter Butts hung up the receiver at his end of the line and staggered across the Hen-Scratch saloon. His face was convulsed, and the odd distortions due to the contraction and relaxation of its muscles would lead one to believe that an electric shock received over the telephone had twisted his face and he was trying to set it right.

Skeeter had received a shock. Four friends, beholding him, noted that his face was bloodless, his yellow fingers trembled and were beyond his control, his knees shook and buckled under him as he walked, and his chin was aquiver.

“Bad luck, niggers,” he whined through chattering teeth. “A band of robbers has busted into Marse Tom Gaitskill’s house, an’ dey is killin’ Dazzle Zenor.”

The four men sitting at the table quivered with excitement mingled with fear. With that emotional race, any sort of excitement is expressed by noise, but fear calls for silence. For a brief time the silence was so great that the five could distinctly hear the ticking of Hitch Diamond’s big silver watch.

Hitch Diamond, the big prize-fighter, sat in a rickety chair. As he meditated upon the possibilities of the case which Skeeter had stated, and his emotions increased, that chair produced an irritating squeak with every inhalation and expulsion of Hitch’s breath. All the noise produced in that room was caused by Hitch’s watch and his chair. The rest were like frightened quail that squat and try to merge with the scenery.

It seemed to be a long, long time before anyone ventured to break that oppressive silence. Finally Hitch spoke bravely:

“Go up an’ rescue Dazzle, Skeeter. I’ll be glad to stay behime an’ take keer of de saloon.”

Four chairs moved uneasily, emitting a scraping sound. Figger Bush pulled a corncob pipe from his pocket, and his trembling hands caused the stem to drop from the cob and fall under the table. Figger stooped to pick it up, found that it was dark under the table, and straightened up without his pipe-stem. He could get that pipe-stem to-morrow.

“Me, too,” Figger Bush quacked. “I’ll he’p Hitchie keep de saloon.”

Mustard Prophet, the scientific agriculturist of the party, took a big red apple from his pocket and bit deeply into its juicy substance. He was trying to appear disinterested, but his favorite kind of apple was tasteless to him now.

“Dar ain’t no use fer de rest of us to go,” Mustard muttered thickly, munching at his apple, and glancing at Pap Curtain. “Skeeter kin handle de case——”

“You got to go wid me, Mustard,” Skeeter interrupted. “Dazzle tole me dat Hopey wus in de house, too—an’ de robbers is killin’ her.”

The part of the apple Mustard held in his fingers slipped away and rolled across the saloon floor; the part he had in his mouth strangled in his quivering throat.

“Dat’s too bad,” he announced in a tone of disinterested sympathy. “But dat serves Hopey right, an’ she deeserves all she gits. Me an’ my nigger wife don’t speak no more. I went dar to-night, an’ axed Hopey to gimme some hot biscuits an’ a few sirup, an’ she wouldn’t do it!”

“I think dis here is yo’ job, Skeeter,” Pap Curtain snarled, the habitual sneer upon his face becoming more acute and repulsive as he tried to conceal his timidity. “Dazzle didn’t want none of us buttin’ in, or she’d axed fer us. Ef you wants to make a hit wid Dazzle, you got to pick up a brave heart an’ go out dar an’ kill dat band of robbers—jes’ like when you wus in de army.”

“But us army soldiers didn’t do no fightin’ all by our lonely selfs,” Skeeter wailed. “We fi’t an’ bled an’ died in regimints!”

“You oughter hab fotch yo’ army home wid you,” Pap sneered. “Somepin like dis might happen sudden any time, an’ you knowed you’d need it.”

The telephone rang sharply, and every man jumped with fright.

“Gosh, dat skeart me!” Pap Curtain exclaimed. “Answer de telerphome, Skeeter.”

“Answer de telerphome, Figger,” Skeeter squalled, feeling nervously in all his pockets as if he were hunting for the most important thing in the world and could not abandon the search.

“My shoe-string is come ontied,” Figger answered as he bent over his foot. “You answer de phome, Mustard!”

Mustard did not move. The telephone bell subsided with a final little tinkle.

“Dar now, it’s too late!” Mustard lamented. “I’d ’a’ answered, only but I’m total deef in one y-ear.”

The telephone rang again, sharply, insistently; rang for a good five minutes.

“Answer it, Hitch Diamond!” Skeeter wailed in the midst of the sound.

Hitch pretended not to hear.

“I bet dat is Hopey telerphomin’ me dat she’s dead,” Mustard Prophet muttered in pitiful fright. “I won’t never git no more hot biscuits. Hopey wus shore a good cook an’ a good wife. Us had little spats, but dar warn’t never no hard feelin’s.”

“Come on, fellers,” Skeeter interrupted. “Less go up on de hill an’ see whut’s happened.”

“I ain’t gwine in dat house!” Pap Curtain exclaimed. “I don’t like to see blood spilt aroun’ all over Marse Tom’s nice carpets.”

“I hope dey don’t spile de floor too much,” Hitch grumbled as he rose to his feet. “Marse Tom always makes me scrub up de messes because Hopey’s too dang fat to lean over.”

“I’ll let Pap guard de front of de house an’ hide behime de big pecan-tree,” Skeeter announced, glad enough to get company. “Hitch kin guard de kitchen by hidin’ behime de meat-house. Figger an’ Mustard kin guard each side of de house by layin’ on de groun’ outside de lawn-fence.”

While Skeeter was issuing these orders, Little Bit had entered the saloon, and stood listening. When Skeeter ended, he spoke:

“I’s gwine guard de Hen-Scratch by hidin’ behime de bar counter,” he giggled, without an idea what all the excitement was about.

“Whar you been at, you little debbil?” Skeeter Butts snapped, whirling about to face the Hen-Scratch’s factotum. “You stay an’ keep dis saloon—an’ ef de telerphome rings, you answer it.”

Skeeter ran to a little safe in the corner of the saloon and brought forth four guns, which he distributed to their rightful owners; then he took his own automatic from behind the bar, and the five negroes started in a swift run for Gaitskill’s home.

By the time they had climbed to the top of the hill on which the fine colonial home was located, they entered the yard, breathless and panting. From that high point they could look out over the village, glowing in the darkness like a great firefly, with its countless lights on the crooked streets and its glowing windows. But their attention was concentrated upon the house before them. The drawing-room glowed with brilliant light.

Four of the men quickly went to the places assigned them and dropped down in hiding. Skeeter sneaked from shrub to shrub, lay down and crawled around rose-bushes, ran from the shelter of one tree across the exposed and open places to the grateful shelter of another tree, until he came close to one of the lighted windows. Reaching up, he straddled the limb over his head and looked fearfully into the drawing-room.

He saw Hopey and Dazzle seated very comfortably. They seemed to be very much amused at something, for they laughed constantly.

“Dis here is some kind of joke,” Skeeter muttered to himself as he dropped from the limb. “I’ll sneak in de kitchen an’ come through de house an’ supprise ’em.”

Slipping to the rear, he emitted a low whistle and located Hitch Diamond by the meat-house, which gave him the courage to open the door of the dark kitchen and enter.

There was not a negro in this rescue-party who was not thoroughly familiar with the Gaitskill home. In the years past they had served in that house in every capacity, and knew every room and closet, and the contents of each. There were a dozen other homes in Tickfall with which they were equally familiar, for the good house servant is a privileged character in the house, and his presence in the home is coveted by every housekeeper.

So it was no trouble for Skeeter to find his way in the dark to the lighted drawing-room.

A bellow of fright from Hopey and a squeal of terror from Dazzle greeted him as he stepped from behind a door with a pistol in his hand.

“Whut you got to say now, Hopey?” Dazzle exclaimed, when she recovered from her fright. “I tole you Skeeter wus a brave nigger——”

There was a loud clatter at the front door, and Pap Curtain’s voice spoke:

“Open dis door, Skeeter! Hurry!”

Skeeter sprang to the door and threw it open. Little Bit, panting, dripping with perspiration, and almost exhausted, was pushed into the room by Pap Curtain, who had to support him to prevent his falling to the floor. In the blaze of light which came through the open door, Figger and Mustard and Hitch got the courage to come out from their hiding-places and listen.

“Bad luck, Skeeter!” Little Bit panted. “I ain’t know whut kind of nigger bizziness dis is, but you-alls is got yo’selfs in a jam.”

“How you know?” Skeeter quavered.

“I answered de telerphome,” Little Bit gasped.

“Whut did it say?” Skeeter asked desperately.

“It say—it say—de gal at de telerphome orfice say she listened in when Dazzle phomed to you, an’ dat she has called all de white folks in Tickfall up an’ tole ’em dat Marse Tom’s house wus being robbed!”

Thereupon Hopey Prophet walked to the electric-light switch and turned out every light. There are those who love darkness rather than light because their deeds are evil.

“Listen!” Pap exclaimed tragically. “I kin hear dem white folks comin’ now!”

Indeed, it was not difficult to hear the sound of running feet. A moment later could be heard the galloping feet of horses. Then automobile lights began to whip the darkness as they turned the corners at high speed and roared like speeding beasts as they came up the long hill. Then, in the darkness, a great light fell on Skeeter.

“Us niggers oughtn’t to be here when de white folks come,” he wailed. “Ef dey ketch us in here, dey’ll put us in jail. Ef dey see us leavin’, dey’ll shoot us!”

“Easy, eve’ybody!” Pap Curtain hissed as he opened the front door. “Git still!”

Then a low sigh of disappointment escaped from every throat. The front lawn was all aquiver with the dark shadows of moving men!

“Good-by, fair world!” Figger Bush whimpered. “Us is caught like a bug in a jug.”

“Shut up!” Pap Curtain snarled. “Whar kin we hide?”

“Git up on de roof!” Skeeter Butts suggested. “Dar’s a ladder in de attic, an’ we kin climb through a trap-door to de roof.”

Eight negroes went shuffling up the steps toward the top of the house just as the clatter of feet sounded upon the porch, and the front door was pushed open.

Four perspiring negroes boosted Hopey up the ladder, and pushed her capacious form through the narrow square opening to the roof. Then they cautiously lowered the door and gratefully seated themselves upon it.

“Safe!” Skeeter exulted. “Us is safe!”

Alas! He did not know that the door he was sitting on had a catch-lock on the inside, and that he and his friends were on that roof to stay until rescued!

III

From their observatory upon the roof, our friends beheld a mob of men surround the house and cautiously inspect all the lawn, the outhouses, and the land surrounding. Half a dozen men under the direction of Sheriff Flournoy searched the house, lighting up every room, looking in every closet, examining every corner, and peering under every bed.

“I reckon the robbers, if any, got away, fellows,” Flournoy announced as he came out on the front porch. “We cannot find anybody, and cannot see that anything has been disturbed.”

“Where are the niggers who raised the alarm?” a voice asked.

“I guess they hit the grit,” Flournoy smiled. “I can’t imagine Hopey and Dazzle staying to see what a burglar wanted, or returning to see what he got.”

“Here’s one nigger has showed up!” a voice responded.

“White folks!” Vinegar Atts bawled as he was pushed into the light through a crowd of men. “Whut done happened to Marse Tom’s house?”

“Where have you been?” Flournoy snapped.

“Jes’ got back from a chu’ch religious meetin’,” Vinegar explained. “Marse Tom lef’ me an’ Hopey in charge of dis house, an’ he ain’t gwine approve his lawn gittin’ trompled up wid white folks.”

“Somebody tried to rob this house while you were away,” Flournoy told him.

Vinegar’s eyes opened until they glowed in the light from the porch like two china door-knobs.

“Did you-all good white folks ketch de robber?”

“No.”

“Did de robber steal anything?”

“No.”

“Whar is Hopey at?”

“The robber may have kidnapped her.”

“You’s prankin’ wid me, Marse John,” Vinegar howled. “Dar ain’t no one robber could kidnack Hopey. Dat wus a band of robbers—I surmises about fawty in de gang.”

Vinegar fumbled with his hat, and his breath came and went in labored gasps.

“I’m glad de robbers never stole nothin’,” he sighed. “Dat house am plum’ full of pretty doodads, an’ ef Marse Tom wus to come home an’ find dem rooms empty, I’d hab to esplain to him. An’ Marse Tom cain’t onderstand nothin’—when a nigger esplains.”

Vinegar shook his head in great perplexity over this particular white man’s mental fulness. One of the mysteries of his life was that he had never put anything across with Colonel Gaitskill. He knew the end from the beginning, and all the ramifications thereof, and with him, Vinegar’s explanations never explained. They merely caused complications.

“Whut is us gwine do now, Marse John?” he asked.

“I’m going to leave you to guard this house until daylight,” Flournoy told him. “Then I’ll come and examine it more carefully.”

“I ain’t got to guard it from de inside, is I, Marse John?” Vinegar asked in frightened tones.

“Yes—no, I think you had better stay outside,” Flournoy replied in a meditative tone. “If you go inside, you’ll go to sleep. If you stay out, the weather is ’most too cool to sleep comfortably, and you will have intervals of wakefulness.”

“I ain’t gwine sleep wid no band of burglars trapesin’ aroun’,” Vinegar assured him stoutly. “But I’ll feel a whole heap safer on de outside.”

“I’ll leave an automatic shotgun and two pistols with you, Vinegar,” Flournoy said. “Now you sit down by that tree over there and keep watch. Hear me?”

“I prefers to stand up an’ keep watch, Marse John,” Vinegar said as he placed the two pistols in his pocket and reached out for the gun. “I never could shoot good settin’ down.”

“You can’t run good settin’ down, either, can you?” Flournoy said mockingly.

“Naw, suh, I cain’t git a real good runnin’ start,” Vinegar chuckled.

“If you see anybody, don’t you run—you shoot!” Flournoy snapped. “But don’t shoot until we all get off this lot.”

“Dis here powder an’ shot don’t cost me nothin’,” Vinegar grinned. “I’ll shore shoot—but I ain’t sayin’ dat I won’t run. My religium teaches me to exoncise discretion.”

Thereupon the crowd, with much joking and loud laughter, wandered off toward the town. They assembled in various popular resorts for liquid refreshment, and then went home for the night.

Vinegar stood under the tree in the silence and darkness. His first thought was that he would stand like a watchful sentinel all night long. But the novelty of standing guard over a silent, unlighted house soon wore off, especially when, as he expressed it, “standing up ailed his feets.”

He sat down “to rest his feets,” removing his shoes for greater comfort. He had spent many years of his life on that hill, and it had always seemed to be a populous place up to that night. Now it was lonely and lonesome; nobody to talk to but himself, a poor listener and an unedifying conversationalist.

Sitting upright “ailed his back.” He shuffled along the ground on the seat of his trousers until he felt the trunk of the tree as a support for his spine. Holding the chilly barrel of his shotgun “ailed his hands”; sitting upon the two pistols in his hip pockets “ailed his thighs.” He laid his weapons aside within easy reach.

The ground was warmer than the trunk of the tree against which he was leaning. It wouldn’t do for his back to get chilled—he might catch “de Spanish fluence.” So he placed the spine of his back level with the earth and permitted the genial warmth of the soil to permeate his massive frame from his head to his heels. Lying flat upon the ground “ailed his head.” He reached for his shoes, placed them under his head for a pillow, looked straight up in the sky and counted three stars—four—seven—fo’teen——

About that time, eight negroes who had been crouched in very cramped attitudes on the steep roof, stood up to ease themselves and seek more comfortable positions.

“How we gwine git word to Vinegar ’thout gittin’ our fool heads shot off?” Pap Curtain whispered, looking down into the yard, where he could see a dark mass under a tree.

“Telerphome him,” Little Bit suggested.

“Us mought start to sing a religious toon,” Figger Bush, vocalist, proposed. “Dat’ll ca’m his mind an’ make him peaceful.”

“Wid all dem guns on him, we wants him to favor peace,” Skeeter agreed.

“Singin’ on top of de Shoofly Chu’ch mought ca’m his mind,” Hitch rumbled doubtfully. “But ef he hears singin’ on top of dis house, it mought trouble his mind.”

“Don’t whisper so loud,” Dazzle warned the men. “Ef de white folks ketch us up on dis roof dey’ll kill us dead wid guns an’ put us in jail.”

“’Twon’t be no worse dan spendin’ de rest of our lives up on de top shelf of dis house,” Pap Curtain retorted.

“’Tain’t no reason fer us to set up on top of dis roof,” Hitch Diamond growled. “Us might git sleepy an’ roll off an’ bu’st ourselfs like a water-millyum. Less git down through de trap-door into de attic.”

“Of co’se, dat’s de idear!” Skeeter applauded. “Vinegar ain’t guarding but one side of dis house nohow. Us’ll slip out on de yuther side an’ go away from here.”

He reached for the edge of the door and tried to lift it. It would not move. The latch on the other side of that door had held the door in place through Gulf storms which had snapped trees like toothpicks.

“Dis door is heavy, Hitch—git aholt!” Skeeter panted, straining at his task.

Four negro men promptly lent their aid and lifted, but they did not lift the door.

“My lawdymussy!” Hitch Diamond sighed with sudden enlightenment, as the cold, nervous sweat popped out on his forehead with the realization of their predicament. “I knows whut us is done. Dis dang door is got a ketch-lock on de inside, an’ us is done locked ourselfs out an’ up on de roof!”

“Is you plum’ shore, Hitchie?” Skeeter asked in a voice that was near to tears.

“I knows it,” Hitch whispered. “Marse Tom sont me up here one time to look fer a leak in de roof, an’ I locked myse’f out in jes’ dis same way.”

“How did you git rescued, Hitchie?” Skeeter asked tearfully.

“I hollered fer he’p till Marse Tom come up an’ onlatched de door from de inside,” Hitch told him.

“No fair hollerin’ fer Marse Tom now,” Skeeter said hopelessly. “We is all dead niggers.”

“Mebbe ef we wait till day Vinegar will see us an’ exoncise some sense—” Hopey began.

“Shut up, Hopey,” Skeeter interrupted. “Ef we waits till dat nigger preacher gits sense, us’ll be here till he dies fer he ain’t never aimin’ todes no sense. An’ ef he looks up in de dawn’s early light an’ sees eight kinky heads peepin’ at him over de edge of dis roof—he’ll shoot, an’ dar’ll be eight blackbirds bakin’ in a pie!”

“Lemme go take a peep at Revun Atts now, befo’ day,” Little Bit said, as he removed his shoes and began to crawl carefully through the darkness toward the edge of the roof. He was gone a long time, and the others waited his return in silence. At last he crawled back and said:

“I b’lieves dat Vinegar is asleep, brudders. It ’pears to me like he’s layin’ down flat, an’ ef you listens real good I think us kin hear him snore.”

“Dat don’t he’p us none,” Hitch Diamond grumbled. “Ef anything wakes him up, he’ll be more skeart dan ever, an’ he’ll beller like a cow.”

They sat down on the trap-door and waited a long time, each one trying to devise some plan of escape.

Finally, in desperation, Skeeter Butts removed his shoes and crawled to the edge of the roof.

“Hello, Revun!” he exclaimed in a low tone. But Vinegar’s audible breathing was undisturbed by the birdlike voice.

“Hey, elder!” Skeeter hailed, getting louder. Skeeter frightened himself by the courageous loudness of his voice, but Vinegar heard nothing to interrupt his dreams.

“Ho! Vinegar Atts!” Skeeter barked; and when he perceived no effect, he howled: “Hey, you ole fool nigger preacher, wake up! Git up!”

“Hush, Skeeter!” Mustard Prophet warned him. “You’re hollerin’ loud enough to wake up all de white folks in dis town, but it takes a real whoopful tone to wake a nigger. Don’t fotch all de white folks up on us.”

“How we gwine git dis old fool woked up?” Skeeter snapped.

“Take a brick off de top of de chimney an’ throw it down at him,” Little Bit suggested.

They wrenched off a brick and threw it. It hit the ground with a loud slap. Vinegar slept on.

“I knowed dat would be de come-out,” Hitch grumbled. “Bricks won’t wake up a nigger onless dey land on his head!”

“Whut we gwine do?” Skeeter wailed. “I never wus as tired roostin’ on a roof in my life.”

Nobody answered, and there was silence while all pondered the problem. The next suggestion came from Figger Bush.

“I read in a book about a man dat escaped out of jail by tyin’ his clothes togedder an’ makin’ a rope. Mebbe ef we tear up our clothes an’ make a rope an’ let Little Bit down to de groun’——”

“Who—me?” Little Bit demanded. “Naw! But I’ll he’p hold de rope while Hitch Diamond climbs down.”

“I got de idear, niggers!” Pap Curtain put in. “Less set somepin on fire an’ throw it down by de side of Vinegar. Dat’ll wake him up all right, an’ it’ll gib a good light fer him to see his friends by.”

“How come you didn’t think of dat sooner, Pap?” Skeeter asked, as he removed his coat and began to pull off his shirt. “I contributes my shirt fer de blaze!”

Thereupon they tied Skeeter’s shirt into a tight wad, struck a match, and set fire to it. When the blaze grew strong, they tossed it over the edge of the roof.

Their aim was good—too good. When Vinegar waked up he found the lawn glowing with light, and throwing fantastic shadows upon the sides of the house—shadows that resembled giant figures, figures which possessed hoof and wing and beak and claw and forked tail and leering looks and sneering mouths, all the malice of deformity. And he also saw that the rear portion of his swing-tail preaching coat was on fire!

Then he split the silence of the night with a cry which makes every nerve quiver whenever it is heard. Vinegar’s voice had been trained for vociferation by years of exercise in calling for strayed hogs in the swamp, by preaching to somnolent negroes to whom his voice must carry through slumberland, and by camp-meeting singing where sound took the place of symphony. That cry was louder than any human voice had ever uttered in Tickfall:

“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”

Smothering the fire on the tail of his Prince Albert coat with his hands, Vinegar seized his automatic shotgun and fired six times in the air. Then he emptied two automatic pistols into the circumambient atmosphere, and above all the roar of his artillery he continued to bellow:

“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”

The night watchman down in the town heard that cry and pulled a pistol from his pocket, firing six times in the air. Running into the court-house, he pulled frantically at the bell-rope, and the wild clangor of the alarm reverberated through the empty streets. Then voices answered:

“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”

IV

From their high perch on top of the house, the eight negroes could look down upon the entire village of Tickfall. Appalled by the unexpected outcome of their ruse, they were terrified beyond description as they beheld an entire village suddenly awake from slumber to most intense excitement and activity.

First, they saw the electric lights flash up in every house in Tickfall. A moment later a large shaft of light flared across the darkness as a man opened a door, stepping out in front with shotgun or pistol. A moment later a number of quick flashes of light in front of each house and the sound of shots. It was thus that each man in the village sought to arouse his neighbors, the promiscuous shooting being a fire signal in all Louisiana villages.

Far over in the other end of the town the negroes beheld a great chimney belching glowing sparks from its top, and then from that station a siren-whistle sounded its weird screech, telling the inhabitants of Tickfall that the immense water-pumps were working and the fire-plugs were throbbing, waiting for the attachment of the hose.

In the center of the town two great lights began to whip the darkness, and another siren sounded, indicating that the gasoline fire-engine was leaving its station for its wild run up the hill to the Gaitskill home.

Then from all parts of the town came the honk of auto-horns and the racket of cars running with the muffler open; and the noise of running, shouting men hurrying to the scene, shooting firearms in the air; and the rattle of hose wagons and ladder trucks pulling the steep grade; while on top of the hill, standing on the Gaitskill lawn, was Vinegar Atts, negro preacher, Boanerges, son of thunder, bawling in a voice that would almost wake the dead:

“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”

Eight negroes, squatting like monkeys on the top of Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s house prayed to die. They didn’t want to live another minute. They did not think it was worth while. They were in the helpless predicament of some man who has inadvertently started some powerful piece of machinery and does not know how to stop it. They had certainly started something. What the townful of fire-fighters would do to them when they caught them was something they did not care to think about. They preferred to die. If the chariot of the Lord would just swing low, there would be eight eager passengers swinging to the back step, waiting for the invitation: “Come up higher!”

The fire-engine stopped in front of the house; the ladder wagons thundered into the horse-lot on the side of the lawn; the multitude of fire-fighters came romping over the lawn; the hose was unwound screechingly and dragged to the nearest fire-plug.

Eight terror-stricken negroes lay flat on their stomachs on the roof moaning in anguish, pleading with de good Lawd to come an’ git ’em now, befo’ de white folks got to ’em fust, while Vinegar Atts, raving like a maniac, pranced up and down the lawn, bellowing like a bull of Bashan:

“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”

“Where is the fire?” a volunteer fireman screamed.

Vinegar gesticulated in the general direction of the Gaitskill homestead and whooped: “Fie-ur-r!”

“Shut up, you fool!” Sheriff Flournoy whooped, hitting Vinegar in the middle of the back with his fist, a blow like the kick of a mule. “Shut up that noise and show us the fire!”

Up to that moment it seemed to Vinegar Atts that the whole hillside was ablaze. He looked around with startled eyes. The Gaitskill home was in total darkness. Not a glow of fire anywhere that needed the aid of the fire department, for all the fires were those in the engine, the automobiles, and the cigarettes and cigars of the men. For the first time the thing looked to Vinegar like a false alarm. A number of men gathered around him, and he became frightened.

“Befo’ Gawd, white folks,” he stammered hoarsely, “dar wus a fire a little while ago, but I don’t know whar-at it is now. It must hab went out.”

“You went to sleep and dreamed it!” Flournoy snapped angrily.

“Naw, suh, I ain’t been asleep at all!” Vinegar declared. “Of co’se, I napped a little early in de night, but I cain’t really say I sleeped. An’ I wus wid awake when de fire bu’st loose. I seen it wid my own eyes.”

“What was burning?” Flournoy asked.

For a moment Vinegar could not recall. Then he remembered.

“Why, boss, my own coat-tail wus a burnin’! Look at it! All de swing-tail part of my Prancin’ Albert coat is ruint—de lef’ hind tail is plum’ burnt off!”

One of the men backed Vinegar to where he could stand in front of an automobile light and inspected the rear of his preaching coat. Vinegar was right.

“What do you make of it, sheriff?” someone asked.

“Aw, I don’t know,” Flournoy said with disgust. “You can’t get any sense out of this old fool.”

“I’s tellin’ all I knows, Marse John,” Vinegar said defensively. “Ef dar warn’t no fire, how come my coat-tail is burnt off?”

“You may have burnt your coat-tail off three days ago, for all I know,” Flournoy remarked.

“Naw, suh; dis coat-tail smells of fresh fire, Marse John,” Vinegar protested. “Ef you don’t b’lieve me, smell it yo’se’f!”

“You listen to me, Vinegar Atts,” Flournoy said angrily. “I’m going to search this house and these premises for a fire, and if I don’t find one I’m going to kick that burnt coat-tail of yours clear down the hill to the jail, and I’ll put you in there for forty years for disturbing the peace! Understand?”

He turned and walked to the house, stopping on the porch.

“Listen to me, everybody!” his authoritative voice commanded. “I am going to search this house for fire. You men search all the stables and outhouses.”

Vinegar’s hand reached back gingerly in the vicinity of his coat-tail. That portion of his anatomy was a particularly soft and tender spot on him. He decided not to wait for the sheriff to escort him to jail on the toe of his official boot. Marse John could be powerful rough with cullud folks if he wanted to be, and now he appeared to be mad about something. Vinegar started down the hill toward the jail on his own volition; he went straight to the jail, but he didn’t stop there. He went on, and he kept going three days.

Eight negroes had heard the sheriff’s announcement that he was going to search the house, and they crouched upon the roof with terror and despair in their hearts. They knew the white man would look for fire on the roof!

“Dar ain’t no hope now, niggers,” Pap Curtain moaned. “Us mought as well jump off dis roof on our heads.”

“Mebbe Marse John won’t come up on dis roof,” Little Bit remarked hopefully.

“Dat white man don’t never leave nothin’ ondone, Little Bit,” Skeeter sighed mournfully. “He’ll be up on dis roof jes’ as shore as dar is a top to dis ole house.”

“Yep, he’s comin’,” Hitch Diamond rumbled. “I wish I wus de tail of a buzzard—I’d hab some chance to fly off from here.”

“Be still, folks; be still an’ lemme think!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed, seating himself on the trap-door and clawing at his head with both hands. “Mebbe I kin pull somepin off!”

“I wish somepin would pull me offen dis roof!” Mustard retorted.

While the search continued in the yard below, Skeeter sat and thought. Not a place where a spark of fire might linger was left uninspected in the yard, the outhouses, or the corners of the fence. Within the house, Flournoy was just as particular and minute in his search. First the entire lower floor was subjected to the closest inspection. Then he moved up the steps and searched in every room and closet. Then he moved up a third flight of steps, and stood looking at the contents of the attic, the accumulation of cast-off stuff of years, sniffing for the odor of smoke, glaring in the darkness for the smallest gleam of fire.

He knew that house through associations which carried him back to his earliest childhood. With his electric flash-light he found the ladder in the attic which led up to the roof. He remembered climbing that ladder, or a ladder like that, fifty years before for a boyish view of the world from that high point.

Slowly he climbed upward until his groping hands touched the trap-door above his head.

Skeeter Butts suddenly rose from his seat upon the trap-door, belled his hands around his mouth, and said in a loud whisper:

“Lay down flat on de roof, niggers, an’ say yo’ prayers! Lay down an’ be still ef you wants to save you lives!”

Then the trap-door was slowly raised about a foot. Skeeter stepped upon the door with his full weight and mashed it back into its place.

“Who is up on that roof?” Flournoy asked in a voice which cracked like a pistol shot.

“By gosh, Marse John!” Skeeter squalled. “You mighty nigh skeart de gizzard out of me. I thought a ha’nt was tryin’ to lift dat door!”

At the sound of Skeeter’s voice Flournoy laughed. In the many years that Skeeter had been his “pet nigger,” his “favorite insect,” Flournoy had found him in so many unexpected places that he had ceased to be surprised.

“What are you doing up on this roof?” Flournoy asked, pushing up the trap-door and looking at Skeeter’s outline in the dark.

“I climbed up to look fer fire on de roof, Marse John,” Skeeter said, artfully blocking the door with his foot so that the sheriff could not easily raise it higher. “Dis roof is powerful slick, Marse John. You better not climb out. Dar ain’t no fire up here nohow!”

“Come on then; let’s go down,” the sheriff answered, backing down the ladder.

Skeeter followed willingly, latching the trap-door securely behind him as he descended.

At the foot of the ladder, the sheriff turned his flash-light into Skeeter’s face.

“Where’s your shirt, Skeeter?” he asked.

“I didn’t take no time to put on no shirt, Marse John,” Skeeter chuckled. “When I heard de kunnel’s house wus on fire, I jes’ nachelly abandoned all de clothes I didn’t need.”

“That was right,” Flournoy approved. “You’re a white nigger!”

V

By the time Flournoy and Skeeter had reached the ground, the volunteer firemen had grown weary and gone home. The engines, hose-wagon, ladder-trucks, automobiles, all had gone home.

“I’ll leave you here for the rest of the night, Skeeter,” Flournoy remarked as he turned his flash upon his watch to see the time. “I think Vinegar Atts must have delirium tremens, or something like that.”

“He didn’t git ’em at de Hen-Scratch, Marse John,” Skeeter said earnestly. “He buys all his drinks on credick, an’ I holds him down till he’s mighty nigh teetotal prohibitionist.”

“You mean that you are the prohibitionist and he is of necessity the almost total abstainer.”

“Yes, suh, it’s jes’ as much dat way as it is de way I said it.”

Half an hour later Skeeter sneaked up the steps, unlatched the trap-door, and pushed it open. Seven negroes were standing with anxious faces at the opening, and they welcomed Skeeter with exclamations of thanksgiving which sounded like a Shoofly prayer and praise service.

One by one they climbed down the ladder, then marched in single file to the kitchen.

Skeeter switched on the electric light, and the eight idiots stood about in dejected attitudes, sleepy, winking at the light, worn with excitement and fatigue, depressed by their frightful experiences.

Pap Curtain was a man of age and discretion; he had had various legal experiences which had put a special emphasis for him upon the motto: “Safety First.”

He looked his seven companions in evil over very searchingly, then turned to them with these words:

“You niggers cross yo’ heart an’ body!”

They made the sign.

“Repeat dese here words after me,” Pap snarled. Then the words came in short phrases, easy to repeat: “I solemnly swears on de Bible an’ all de opossums dat I won’t say nothin’ about de doin’s of dis night, now an’ ferever, amen. An’ ef I does, I hopes I may die!”

“An’ ef anybody blabs, I’ll be de nigger dat’ll cause yo’ onhappy end!” Pap warned them menacingly.

“Suppose de white folks ax questions?” Little Bit inquired.

“Dat’s easy,” Pap replied with a sneering grin. “Tell eve’ybody dat axes you dat all us niggers thinks Marse Tom Gaitskill ole house is ha’nted. Dat’ll be aplenty to say to white folks.”

Dazzle Zenor walked over and put her arms around Skeeter Butts.

“You is a brave cullud man, Skeeter,” she told him. “I loves you.”

Skeeter disengaged her arms and pushed her away.

“Wus you lyin’ to me when you telerphomed dat robbers wus in dis house?” he asked.

“Naw, suh, I wus jokin’. I wanted to see wus you brave enough to come an’ rescue me—an’ you wus, Skeeter, an’ I loves you mo’ dan ever.”

But Skeeter evaded her outstretched arms as she advanced again for a clinch, and with a contemptuous wave of his yellow hand he delivered this good-night message:

“Git away! You done made me burn up a shirt an’ waste a good night’s sleep. Dat’s plum’ plenty fer you! I’m always a brave nigger!”

Then eight negroes uttered a low moan of fright. The electric light had gone out, leaving them in darkness in that haunted house!

The electric lights went out every night at one o’clock, but they didn’t think of that.

Eight negroes left that kitchen in a hurry. They sped away in eight different directions, at various speeds, each according to his capability. But everyone did his best, each chased by a “ha’nt”—for thus doth conscience make cowards of us all.