“Come on, Skeeter!” Hitch Diamond growled. “We better go over in de pasture an’ he’p de white folks shoot off de works!” “Hitch,” Skeeter answered pitifully, “I feels powerful sick. It ’pears like I cain’t git dat steamboat offen my mind. You an’ Vinegar an’ Figger go over an’ he’p de white folks an’ let me set an’ ponder a while.” “All right!” Hitch growled. “But ef Marse Tom ketches you cuttin’ out wuck, he’ll kick you all over dis hoss-lot!” Old Sneezer boomed again! Then for two hours the population of Tickfall sat entranced. Numberless roman candles shot their balls high in the air with a graceful curve, countless sky-rockets burst above their heads in a shower of sparks, an artillery fire of bombs burst into stars over them, cataracts of red, white, and blue fire flowed in a tumbling stream, horses, bicycles, automobiles, and whole strings of railroad cars traveled across the pasture, while through it all sounded the boom! boom! boom! of old Sneezer, the cannon, counting the number of years of our national independence! In the midst of this celebration, Skeeter Butts was suddenly galvanized into action by a great idea. He went racing across the street into the pasture, and drew Hitch Diamond and Figger Bush to one side. “Listen, niggers!” he panted. “Rake off some of dese here fireworks! Marse Tom is got a heap mo’ dan he needs! Swipe out a few!” Following his own suggestion, Skeeter seized a keg of calcium powder and ran across the pasture, setting it in the corner of the fence. He was followed shortly by Hitch Diamond and Figger Bush, one bringing an unopened package of roman candles and the other a package of sky-rockets. “Dat’s plenty of dis kind of truck, fellers!” Skeeter cackled. “Go back an’ rake off de bigges’ cannon pop-crackers you kin find!” From that moment Skeeter became an active assistant in the celebration, and when the old cannon boomed for the last time and the fire-works ended with a final set-piece which revealed the American Flag, twenty feet high and nearly forty feet long, the populace of Tickfall roared their hearty approbation to the skies. Ten minutes later a procession of negroes marched down the hill from the Gaitskill home, their glorious, pipe-organ voices chanting the Battle Hymn of the Republic. “Glory! Glory! Halleluiah! Our God is marching on!” At midnight the marching column of singing negroes disbanded. “Vinegar,” Skeeter said, “me an’ Figger an’ Hitch is decided to go to Kerlerac in de automobile an’ git in on de nigger dance at dat place.” “I ain’t gwine!” Vinegar answered. “’Tain’t fitten fer a nigger preacher to dance. Excusin’ dat, I’s too fat an’ de women folks step on my foots.” “You got to go!” Skeeter wailed. “You got to he’p Hitch Diamond push de auto through de sand!” “Dat’s right,” Vinegar acceded. “You can’t trabbel nowhere widout my muscle. I’ll tag along wid you-alls!”