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.
