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!”
