Skeeter Butts had seen as much of the fray as he could stand, so he ran behind the bar, seized his automatic pistol and fired it in the air, holding the weapon out of the window. He knew how dangerous such a performance was, for it might suggest to the angry negroes the use of their own guns. But he took the chance with the hope that the town watchman would hear the firing and come to the rescue. The negroes took no notice of the pistol-firing, for some of them had found new and mightier weapons. There were half a dozen tables in the room, and when some of these were overturned, the men wrenched the legs off, and with shouts of glee brought these mighty clubs into action. “Gawdlemighty!” Little Bit screamed. “Eve’ybody is tryin’ to kill eve’ybody else!” Figger rushed to the electric-switch and turned off the lights. “Bless Gawd!” Little Bit bawled. “Eve’ybody cain’t see eve’ybody else!” Suddenly a voice cut through the sound and fury of that room. “Hey, you niggers! Turn on the lights!” Silence except for the tramping of many feet going toward doors and windows. “Halt!” Silence, broken by the sound of running feet. The light flashed on and Little Bit stood by the switch. “Dey’s all went, cap’n,” he snickered. “Nobody here excusin’ me!” The watchman pushed open the swinging door and passed out into the night. “I guess de meetin’ is over,” Little Bit giggled. “I’ll shet up an’ go home to bed.” He carefully examined his garments to see that they had not been hurt in the scramble, smoothing his flowered shirt-waist shirt, and pulling up his purple-silk stockings till they were trim and neat over his legs. “I’m glad dem scufflers didn’t spile my ladylike clothes,” he said proudly. “Ginny Babe Chew says I’s de sensation of de town!” V During the night there was an exodus from Tickfall on the part of certain citizens. Skeeter Butts and Figger Bush left for the fishing-camp, where Vinegar Atts had taken refuge. They found Pap Curtain and Mustard Prophet sitting in front of a camp-fire, telling the pastor of the Shoofly church the story of their rival race for president of the Uplift League. The place of assembly was known as the Buzzard’s Roost, a camp hidden deep in the Little Moccasin Swamp on the banks of the Dorfoche Bayou. During the next day, their company was augmented by various negroes who nursed wounds and bruises acquired in the affray in the saloon. But they were all fugitives—and friends now. Followers of Pap Curtain and followers of Mustard Prophet dug bait and cut poles and rigged up fishing-lines and entered into friendly piscatorial rivalry and forgot all about the elevation of the poor, oppressed colored race. Ten days passed in a happy vacation for the whole care-free bunch. Then Little Bit made his appearance at the Buzzard’s Roost with an important announcement: “You won’t git arrested ef you comes in now, brudders. De police is done fergot all about you.”