the cover, and lo! on the other side was the picture of an aged negro,
his black face framed in white hair and beard, his spectacles pushed up
on his flat forehead, his mouth spread wide in a snaggle-toothed laugh.
“My Gawd!” Skeeter exclaimed, springing to his feet and gazing at the
face with a fear which made his lips tremble, and his hands shake, and
his knees knock together. “Dar’s a tintype of ol’ Swampo, dat wild
Affican nigger whut used to live in a holler sycamo’ tree in de Little
Moccasin Swamp!”
He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands.
For five minutes he strove to recall all that he knew and had heard of
Swampo.
He remembered the leering, leathery, wrinkled face of the old half-wit
negro, who came to town on every Saturday afternoon, and smirked and
bowed and scraped around the white folks, holding out a clawlike hand,
begging for a few pennies. Once he had heard a fearful screaming among
the blue jays in the swamp, and had crept through the high undergrowth
to see what the trouble was; and lo! Swampo had caught a blue jay, had
laid the bird on its back, and had pinioned its wings to the ground
with forked sticks.
The bird’s horrible screams had brought all the jays in that part of
the swamp to the spot, and they stood around the imprisoned bird,
making loud and profane comments upon his unfortunate predicament.
At intervals some blue jay, impelled by curiosity, walked up within
reach of the captive bird’s claws. Instantly the captive reached out,
seized the bird, and held him a prisoner until Swampo slunk out of the
underbrush, grinning like an ape, and released it!
As he thought about this fearful scene, Skeeter’s hair stood up
on end, just as it had years before when he witnessed it, and had
crawled, terrified, away from that vicinity. A cold shiver passed over
his sweat-drenched body; he raised his head and eyed Swampo’s wide,
laughing mouth with superstitious awe.
“Swampo shore is got de laugh on me,” he muttered through chattering
teeth. “I wish dat nigger hadn’t sold me dis book. I ain’t no scholard!”
Lighting one cigarette after another to bolster up his courage, he
managed at last to put out a trembling finger and turn the book over so
he could read the title-page. With the greatest difficulty he spelled
it out, giving the peculiar negro pronunciation to the words as he
uttered them:
“‘Af-ric-an Dream Book an’ Fortune Teller, containin’ de true
in-ter-pre-ta-tion of dreams, an’ de numbers of de events to which dey
ap-ply. Also prog-nos-ti-ca-tions an’ di-vi-na-tions by cards, dice,
do-mi-noes, dreams, moles, an’ marks, phy-si-og-no-my, phy-si-ol-o-gy,
signs, au-gu-ri-es, charms, an’ in-can-ta-tions----”
“My good gosh!” Skeeter almost screamed as he sprang to his feet. “Dis
is a awful book! Half dem words don’t signify nothin’!”
For ten minutes he walked up and down under the trees muttering to
himself, his face fear-stricken, his hands trembling, his body oozing
with cold sweat.
Then with a mighty resolution he reached out for the book, folded it,
and slipped it into his hip pocket.
“Dis book is done skeart me plum’ to death,” he sighed. “Ef I die, I’ll
go to hell! I wonder whar Revun Vinegar Atts is at? I’s gwine to talk
dis over wid some religium pusson!”
* * * * *
The Rev. Vinegar Atts occupied four chairs under a tree in front of the
Shoofly church--his body on one, his feet on another, his arms spread
wide across the back of two more.
“Howdy, Skeeter?” he exclaimed. “Fotch you out anodder chair from de
chu’ch. I needs all I’m got.”
Skeeter looked him over and grinned. For a moment he forgot his fears
in contemplation of this squat-legged, pot-bellied, moon-faced negro
preacher, whose head was bald except for two tufts of hair, one over
each ear, which made him resemble a mule wearing a blind bridle.
“You shore is spreadin’ yo’se’f out, Elder,” Skeeter said, as he set
his chair close beside Vinegar. “You look like a buzzard whut is tryin’
to fly back’ards an’ upside down at de same time.”
“I’s like a watermillyum vine,” Vinegar boomed. “When I gits sot good,
I begins to spraddle.”
Skeeter reached to his hip pocket and brought out his dream book.
“Whut you flashin’ dat book aroun’ fer, Skeeter?” Atts asked
suspiciously. “De Bible say dat many study is weary on de flesh.”
“I needs some advices from a scholard,” Skeeter remarked as he lighted
a cigarette. “I done smoked up a whole pack of dese here things in de
las’ half-hour. I’s powerful worrited in my mind.”
“You done come to de right place fer advices, son,” Atts announced with
confidence. “Ef you got anything to ax me, jes’ bawl out!”
“Does you b’lieves in dreams, Elder?” Skeeter began.
“Well, suh, dat depen’s,” Rev. Vinegar Atts announced after a moment of
cogitation. “As a preacher, of co’se, I b’lieves in Proverdunce; but
ef you ’terrogates me jes’ as a common cullud nigger pusson--of co’se
dat’s plum’ diffunt.”
“Is you had any dreams recent?” Skeeter inquired.
“Yes, suh; I dreamt about a wash-tub las’ night,” Vinegar informed him.
“Dis book tells whut dat dream signify,” Skeeter explained, as he
opened the volume and turned to the proper page. “I reads dis about
tubs: ‘Ef it be filled wid water, you hab evil to fear; an empty tub
signify trouble; an’ to run against one, sorrow.’”
“Lawdymussy!” Vinegar bawled.
With a convulsive movement of his body, he kicked the chair from under
his feet, hurled the chairs from under his arms, and upset himself
falling over on his back with his feet in the air like an overturned
bug.
He jumped up, breathing like a foundered horse.
“Fear, trouble, an’ sorrer!” he bellowed. “I knowed it! I knowed it wus
comin’ on all de time!”
He sat down, folded his hands, and gazed around him, his mouth hanging
open like the jaws of a bull alligator.
“Here I is, Luck!” he mourned. “Jes’ come right along, throw me down,
an’ set on my head, den gimme a dose of bumpo-calomel an’ lemme die! O
Lawdy, dat dose of dreams is shore heavy on dis nigger’s stomick!”
“Dat’s pretty servigerous, Vinegar,” Skeeter said mournfully, “but you
oughter hear whut dis book prophesy ’bout me!”
“Go ’way, little yeller nigger!” Vinegar exclaimed with a flapping
motion of his hand toward Skeeter. “Don’t tell me nothin’ ’bout
yo’se’f! Ain’t I got all I kin stan’ right now? Look at me--I’s
skeart already; I’s got plenty trouble right dis minute; an’ as fer
sorrer--I’s shore sorry you ever fetch yo’ ole yeller mug up on dis
hill whar I sets!”
“Whut you gwine do, Elder?” Skeeter inquired in a voice which quavered
with fear.
“I’s gwine hide out till dese here calamities is done passed over,”
Vinegar bellowed.
He jerked out a soiled white handkerchief and mopped it around his
face, backward across the top of his bald head, and over the back of
his bull-like neck.
“Whoosh!” he snorted. “I’ll be skeart to eat my vittles! I’ll be skeart
to go to bed at night! I ain’t gwine take no chances wid a dream like
dat taggin’ behime me!”
Skeeter fumbled with the volume a moment, then inquired:
“Would you wish to own dis book?”
“Who? Me?” Vinegar howled. “Naw, _suh_! Whut a nigger don’t know
cain’t never hurt him; but ef he knows whut’s gwine to happen, he ain’t
never real sapisfied till it comes to pass.”
“Dat’s right,” Skeeter mourned. “I shore made a miscue when I paid
a dollar fer dis book. It’s got a tintype of ole Affican Swampo in
it--you rickoleck him, Elder?”
“I shore does,” Vinegar responded. “De white folks found him dead out
in de Little Moccasin Swamp wid a live rattlesnake in his hand!”
“Yes, suh, dat’s him,” Skeeter said fearfully. “I had done fergot ’bout
dat snake.”
“Atter dey kilt de snake de white folks foun’ dat Swampo wus holdin’
it so tight in his dead han’ dat dey couldn’t git it away from him,”
Vinegar said. “Dey buried Swampo an’ de snake togedder!”
“Listen to dat!” Skeeter exclaimed, his hair standing up on his head.
“Ain’t dat plum’ awful?”
“Whut dey doin’ wid Swampo’s picture in dat book?” Vinegar wanted to
know.
“Dis book is named atter Swampo,” Skeeter informed him. “It’s called de
Affican Dream Book.”
“Go ’way wid dat book, Skeeter!” Vinegar bawled. “O Lawdy, I wonder
whar I kin borry a rabbit foot at?”
He sprang up, began to search his pockets, and announced tragically:
“I ain’t got no luck-charms but a buckeye, a raw pertater, de toof of a
hoss, an’ de foot of a mud-turkle!”
Then happening to glance down to where a road ran around the foot of
the hill on which the church was located, he waved his arms wildly and
bellowed:
“Hey, Figger Bush! Come over here a minute! Come prompt, cullud man!”
Figger looked up, vaulted the churchyard fence, and came up the hill
toward them, wading through weeds shoulder high.
“Don’t you say nothin’ ’bout dat book till I borrers his rabbit foot,
Skeeter!” Vinegar admonished in a low tone as the two watched Figger’s
approach.
A moment later, Vinegar said:
“Figger, ain’t you got no luck-charms or rabbit foots dat you kin loant
me fer a little while?”
“Naw,” Figger grinned. “Dey don’t do no good. I done tried ’em out!”
“Does you believe in dreams, Figger?” Skeeter asked after the three had
seated themselves.
“Shore!” Figger answered, “I dreamed ’bout a rabbit las’ night. De
Revun is done reminded my mind by axin’ ’bout my rabbit foot.”
“I’s gwine tell you whut dat dream means, Figger,” Skeeter announced,
looking at his book. “‘Rabbit--To dream of a rabbit denotes some bad
accidunt.’”
Have you ever seen a goose sitting in a summer shower when a big drop
of rain hits him on the top of his head? A whitish film comes over his
eyes, he looks up at the sky with a ludicrous appearance of meekness
and humble supplication, then ducks his head beneath his wing and waits
for the worst to happen.
When this appalling interpretation of his dream struck Figger on the
top of his head he looked up at the sky with filmed eyes, then walked
to the middle of the churchyard and stood upright with legs as wabbly
as those of a new-born calf.
“Fetch me a chair out here, Skeeter,” he howled. “Don’t make me stan’
up any longer--I mought fall over an’ bust my head or somepin. I’s
gwine set out from under dat tree! Set down in dat chair, Skeeter, an’
see ef it is solid--it might break down an’ run one of dem spokes clean
through me.”
Skeeter tested the chair, and Figger sank down upon it with an air of
thankfulness. Then he sighed:
“I shouldn’t had walked through dem high weeds comin’ up here--I bet
dar is a snake in dem weeds as long as a railroad track!”
Thus, in one minute, Figger Bush had reduced himself to a hopeless
imbecile. The other two looked upon him with pity and compassion,
trembling at the dire portent of their own dreams and entering into
full fellowship of sympathy with Figger. They sat for a few minutes in
silence, then Skeeter Butts announced:
“I reckin I better mosey back to de Hen-Scratch.”
“Us is gwine wid you, Skeeter,” the other two announced promptly. “We
is all sons of sorrer, an’ we oughter stick togedder.”
* * * * *
At the Hen-Scratch saloon they found Hitch Diamond, Prince Total, and
Pap Curtain.
“Whut ails you-alls?” Hitch inquired curiously as he gazed into the
frightened faces of his three friends. “You niggers look like you is
jes’ foun’ out you wus borned to die!”
“Dat’s a fack, Hitch,” Skeeter sighed, as he and his two companions
seated themselves on a bench. “Us is all had bad dreams.”
“I had a dream las’ night,” Hitch announced in his deep, rumbling bass.
“I dreamed I runned a donkey down an’ tied him to a tree, an’ he brayed
all night. Dat dream woked me up an’ I like to never got to sleep no
more.”
“Does you know whut dat dream means?” Skeeter asked.
“Naw, suh, it’s been worritin’ me all day.”
“Dis book tells whut dreams means, Hitch,” Skeeter exclaimed as he
opened the pages.
The negroes bunched up close around him, and after a moment Skeeter
found the place and read aloud:
“‘Donkey--If you see him runnin’, brings misfortune; if he is tied you
will ex-per-i-ence great loss; if you hear him bray, signifies death.’”
As Hitch Diamond received this intelligence he was a study for the
psychologist. His iron features seemed to disintegrate, becoming a
heterogeneous mass of conflicting emotions; his giant form seemed to
shrink until his garments became too large, and hung loose and flapped
around him; his scalp moved, forming a wedge on the top of his head,
the point of the wedge at the apex of his skull.
“Oh, swelp me!” Hitch mourned. “I shore hab put up a job on myse’f dis
time!”
The negroes gazed upon him with mournful curiosity, but none offered
encouragement or sympathy. The fear of the unknown had gripped them
all. In the blazing heat of the mid-afternoon, few living things were
stirring, and an unearthly stillness seemed to pervade the entire town
of Tickfall. In that vast silence of sun-slashed sky, and drooping,
withering earth, and quiet animate life, these six men sat, filled with
superstitious awe, appalled by fear of the unknowable, confidently
anticipating the very worst of misfortune.
After a long time, Pap Curtain began to fidget.
“Say, Skeeter,” he whispered, “I don’t hanker atter no trouble, but I
dreamed ’bout a cart las’ night. I’s jes’ bound to know whut dat means.
See if----”
His whisper ended in a gasp as Skeeter began to turn the pages of the
mysterious book with nervous, shaking fingers.
Pap waited, a picture of fear. His long neck rising from his collarless
shirt seemed to stretch longer; his mouth, naturally so wide that one
could sling a side of bacon into it, hung open loosely, and moisture
appeared upon his cracked lip which retained a habitual sneer; his
large, shifty eyes rolled back in his head like the eyes of a choking
horse; then Skeeter pronounced his doom:
“Here ’tis,” Skeeter said, in a voice which sounded unnaturally loud,
and which made every listener jump. “‘Cart--Its ap-pear-ance indicates
ser-i-ous in-ju-ry. If you go upon it or move from it, de in-ju-ry may
prove fat-al.’”
“Oh, Lawd, ain’t I a fool nigger?” Pap mourned. “I wish I hadn’t ast
nothin’ ’bout dat. I wus feelin’ powerful good up to now, but----”
He wiped the sweat from his face on his ragged shirt-sleeve, reached
back and jerked a twist of perique chewing-tobacco from his hip-pocket,
bit off a chew, and promptly spat it out on the ground with an
exclamation of fear.
“I fergot, fellers!” he sighed. “Dat book specify serious injury. Dis
terbaccer mought hab a dynamite cap wrapped up in it, an’ when I chaws
dat cap de top of my head will be over yanside de Massassap’ River!”
He held the twist off at arm’s length, slowly released his fingers, and
let it fall to the ground.
“Hey!” Hitch Diamond bellowed, flinching away. “Don’t git so brash all
of a suddent--be keerful how you drap things aroun’ me! I done heerd a
donkey bray, an’ dat shore signify death!”
Prince Total got up, walked with jerky steps like a string-halt horse
into the saloon, and exercising the right of assistant bar-tender,
helped himself to a liberal drink of red liquor; thus fortified, he
came out and sat down again. He opened his mouth to speak several
times, then closed it without a word. He was aching to know the
interpretation of his last dream but dared not ask.
“Wus you aimin’ to ax somepin, Prince?” Skeeter finally inquired in a
lugubrious tone.
Prince shook his head, and Skeeter took out a buckeye and began to
shine it up by rubbing it upon the leg of his trousers. At last, when
Prince could stand the suspense no longer, he asked in a feeble voice:
“Skeeter, I don’t hanker to wish no bad luck onto myse’f, but, please,
suh, look an’ see do de book say anything about a wheel? I seed a wheel
in my sleep las’ night.”
“Here ’tis,” Skeeter replied promptly. “Down close to de eend of de
list. ‘Wheel--Is om-i-nous of evil.’”
“Dar now, Prince, you done got yourn,” Hitch Diamond bellowed.
“I knowed it wus somepin bad,” Prince remarked in a weak voice.
“Nothin’ good don’t never happen to a nigger!”
Skeeter Butts dropped the book upon the ground, and it fell open with
the laughing face of the gray-haired negro exposed to the view of the
men sitting around him.
“Dat Swampo wus in cahoots wid de debbil, fellers,” Hitch remarked in
a low tone, as he pointed to the picture. “He wus always potterin’
aroun’ wid buzzards an’ sich like. He teached me a song ’bout de
turkey-buzzard when I wus jes’ a little shaver. It went like dis:”
“T-u tucky, t-u ti,
T-u tucky-buzzud eye!
T-u tucky, t-u ting,
T-u tucky-buzzud wing!”
“Aw, hush, Hitch!” Vinegar Atts bawled, as the lugubrious, recitative
whine of this song greeted their ears. “Whut you wanter start somepin
like dat fer?”
“I wus jes’ tellin’ you!” Hitch rumbled defensively.
“You niggers know whut?” Pap Curtain exclaimed, springing to his feet.
“I’s gwine to de Little Moccasin Swamp an’ hide out till dis bad luck
goes by.”
“Me, too,” Prince Total proclaimed. “I ain’t gwine meddle aroun’ de
white folks wid dis hoodoo on me. I’ll shore git serious injury.”
“Us, too,” the other darkies announced promptly.
“Wait till I locks up de Hen-Scratch, niggers!” Skeeter Butts begged.
“I ain’t gwine sell no mo’ booze dis day.”
“Less stay close togedder, niggers,” Vinegar Atts whined as they
started down the dusty road toward the swamp. “Lemme walk in de exack
middle of you-alls!”
* * * * *
The nearest edge of the Little Moccasin Swamp lay four miles from
Tickfall. It was an oblong stretch of deep, black mud, and deeper and
blacker water, measuring twelve miles the longest way, and six miles at
its widest.
Except for one place, along the Little Moccasin ridge, it was
traversable only by those who knew the swamp well, and had the
instincts of a fox or wolf.
It was full of cypress trees and cypress knees, canebrake, and rank
weeds, pestilential with disease, and inhabited by countless insects,
bugs, worms, snakes, and animate things of that general nature which
bit or stung or poisoned. It was the last place on earth which a white
man would seek to escape bad luck.
The sun had set before the six negroes came to that point where the
swamp came right up to the dusty parish road and ended in a fringe of
weedy undergrowth. In the midsummer heat this undergrowth was ten feet
high, making a thick curtain and from the rotting vegetation beneath
there came an almost overpowering smell.
As the six negroes walked down the silent road, the darkness in the
woods, increased by the interlocked branches of the trees, was intense
and overwhelming. The green fringe of the swamp weeds took on fantastic
shapes, and the negroes, through their disordered imaginations, beheld
claws and wings, and leering eyes, and sneering mouths, and snarling
teeth, and painted upon the black canvas of the dark were all the
slimy, horrid forms which fear could conceive.
At last they came to the bridle path which branched from the parish
road and followed the Little Moccasin ridge to the Dorfoche bayou.
Up to this point in their flight the negroes had traveled in a bunch,
but the narrow path now required that they go in single file?
“Who is gwine take de lead?” Skeeter Butts asked.
“Not me,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “My ole maw tole me dat I wus borned
under de sign of de goat, but I ain’t gwine butt head-fust inter dat
swamp. My dream specify fear, trouble, an’ sorrer. I got a plenty now!”
“I ain’t gwine lead,” Figger Bush said positively. “Ef one of dem big
swamp jack-rabbits like de one I dreamed ’bout wus to hop acrost my
path, I’d straddle eve’y tree in dat swamp!”
“I don’t figger on headin’ de peerade,” Pap Curtain proclaimed. “I got
a hunch dat I better take good keer of myse’f. My dream specify serious
injury. It don’t take hardly nothin’ to hurt a nigger ef luck’s agin
him.”
“I backs out, too,” Prince Total declared. “Dat path ain’t wide enough
fer no wagin wheel, but I ain’t sayin’ dat a wheel _cain’t_ run on it!”
“I’s gwine fetch up de rear,” Hitch Diamond boomed in his deep bass.
“Misforchine, great loss, an’ death is a plenty fer po’ Hitchey to tote
along wid de crowd ’thout gittin’ ahead of de bunch wid his load.”
“Less build us a fire so we kin see!” Skeeter Butts squealed. “I’s
gittin’ de jig-jams standin’ here in de dark.”
“Us won’t need dis fire long,” Pap Curtain announced as he pointed to a
yellow haze through the tree. “De full moon is comin’ up!”
“Bless Gawd fer dat!” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “Us needs two moons!”
When their fire was lighted, Skeeter Butts sat down upon the trunk of a
fallen tree which lay beside the road, and said:
“Fellers, dis book is shore handed me a wad of trouble an’ sorrer. It
specify dat I is powerful bad an’ oughter git reformed befo’ I dies an’
goes to hell; it argufy dat secret enemies is trailin’ along atter me;
an’ it orate dat chi-mer-i-cal plans is tryin’ to engage wid me!”
“Whut kind of plans is dem?” Vinegar Atts asked.
“I dunno, Revun,” Skeeter said miserably. “It ’pears to me like a
preacher oughter know somepin ’bout dat. Whut does you figger it am?”
“Well, suh,” Vinegar announced, after a period of deep cogitation, “of
co’se I would had to scuffle consid’able to git de real signify of dat
long word ’thout no book of commontaters to read up on; but mos’ gin’ly
speakin’, I argufies dat dem kind of plans is invenjums of de debbil.”
“How does you know?” Skeeter asked uneasily.
“I argufies dis way,” Vinegar declared, boring with his right middle
finger into the palm of his left hand to emphasize his remarks: “Ef you
is gwine die an’ go to hell ’thout reformin’ yo’ badness, of co’se yo’
secret enemies am de debbil an’ his angels, an’ dem plans you spoke
’bout is a kind of infernum machine like a cuttin’-box. I bet you git
bofe yo behime legs chopped off befo’ to-morrer mawnin’.”
“Lawd,” Skeeter sighed pitiably. “I’s powerful glad dar’s a full moon
to-night. She’ll git up over dem trees in a little while. I needs mo’
light!”
In the light of the fire, Skeeter brought out his dream book, and gazed
at the red cover design.
“Ain’t dar no good dreams in dat book, Skeeter?” Figger Bush asked.
“Yes, suh, dis book is full of ’em,” Skeeter answered.
“Read us some, Skeeter,” Pap Curtain begged. “Ef we knows whut dey is,
mebbe us kin dream ’em an’ bust de hoodoo.”
“Here is de fust one I sees,” Skeeter replied as he began to read
laboriously: “‘Lion--To see one denotes admittunce to de sawciety of
dis-tin-guish-ed pussons. To sit or ride on de back of a lion denotes
de pro-tec-tion of some powerful pussonage. To dream of eatin’ de flesh
of a lion denotes some high of-fice----”
“Aw, shuckin’s!” Prince Total exclaimed. “A nigger never could dream
’bout no lion. Us might dream ’bout a lizard.”
“You better not, Prince,” Skeeter warned him. “Listen to dis:
‘Lizard--Misfortune through false an’ de-ceit-ful friends.’”
“Fer de Lawd’s sake, Skeeter,” Vinegar howled impatiently. “Look over
dat book an’ see ain’t dar no way to bust a bad hoodoo dream-sign!”
The pages of the dream book rustled for ten minutes while the negroes
sat in expectant silence. At last Skeeter squealed:
“I done foun’ a new page, niggers! It’s all ’bout signs an’ omens.
It say dis: ‘How-ever skep-ti-cal some pussons pro-fess to be on de
subjeck of signs which ad-mon-ish an’ forewarn----’”
“Aw, cut dat out!” Hitch Diamond growled. “Us b’lieves in ’em--read de
signs!”
Thus admonished, Skeeter began:
“‘Ef yo’ lef’ eye-brow be visited wid a tantalizin’ itchin’, be
as-sured dat you are goin’ to look upon a painful sight--de corp’ of a
valued frien’.”
Hitch Diamond sprang to his feet, while every negro gazed upon him with
fearsome curiosity, at the same time, unconsciously reaching up and
scratching their left eyebrows!
“Ef you niggers ain’t got no real objections, I’ll git out from under
dis tree,” Hitch said in pitiful tones. “Dis tree is been here ’bout a
millyum years, an’ I ’speck it’s gittin’ ready to fall over.”
“Dat’d shore wuck a bad accidunt on me,” Figger remarked as he moved to
the middle of the road.
“Let Skeeter read some mo’ signs!” Prince Total howled as he walked out
and squatted in the middle of the road like a frog. “Mebbe us kin find
somepin dat’ll bust Hitch’s luck.”
“‘When you are af-fec-ted by itchin’ on de spine of yo’ back,’” Skeeter
read, “‘be assured dat yo’se’f or some one near-ly re-lat-ed to you is
about to suffer a violent death!’”
“My Gawd!” Vinegar Atts bawled.
There was silence for a quarter of an hour, while fear gripped the
hearts of the negroes with iron fingers and squeezed out all hope, as
we crush the water from a sponge.
Vinegar Atts was breathing like the exhaust of a steam engine.