He sat there until the couching sun brought long, thin shadows and a false promise of coolness. Dink Bynum returned unobtrusively to his abandoned post of duty; the crowds began coming back from the Shady Grove schoolhouse; and Jeff found time to slip out and confiscate to private purposes a coal-oil can that still stood in the roadway. He knew of a market for such commodities. The telephone bell rang and the old judge, raising his sagged frame with an effort, went to the instrument and took down the receiver. Longdistance lines were beginning to creep out through the county and this was a call from Florence Station, seven miles away. “That you, Jedge Priest?” said the voice over the wire. “This is Brack Rodgers. I've been tryin' to raise the sheriff's office, but they don't seem to answer. Well, suh, they got the nigger what done that devil-mint over at the Hampton place on Massac this evenin'. Yes, suh--about two hours ago. He was a nigger named Moore that worked on the adjoinin' place to Hampton's--a tobacco hand. Nobody suspected him until this mornin', when some of the other darkies got to talkin' round; and Buddy Quarles heared the talk and went after him. The nigger he fit back and Buddy had to shoot him a couple of times. Oh, yes, he died--died about an hour afterward; but before he died he owned up to ever'thing. I reckin, on the whole, he got off light by bein' killed. Which, Jedge?--the nigger that's there in the jail? No, suh; he didn't have nothin' a-tall to do with it--the other nigger said so while he was dyin'. I jedge it was what you mout call another case of mistaken identity on the part of them fool hounds.” ***** To be sure of getting the full party vote out and to save the cost of separate staffs of precinct officers, the committee ordained that the Democratic primaries should be held on the regular election day. The rains of November turned the dusts of August to high-edged ridges of sticky ooze. Election day came, wet and windy and bleak. Men cutting across the yellow-brown pastures, on their way to the polling places, scared up flocks of little grayish birds that tumbled through the air like wind-driven leaves and dropped again into the bushes with small tweaking sounds, like the slicing together of shears; and as if to help out this illusion, they showed in their tails barrings of white feathers which opened and closed like scissor-blades. The night came on; and it matched the day, being raw and gusty, with clouds like clotted whey whipping over and round a full moon that resembled a chum-dasher covered with yellow clabber. Then it started raining.