“Naw, suh,” he concluded. “Dat white man is done lost dis here flyin’-machine. He lost it a puppus. He ain’t never comin’ back fer it.” Sniffing at the taint of hot oil which spoiled the rich odors of the woods, the strange negro wandered on toward Tickfall, his nose in the air. Incidentally he had some plans in the air. II THREE MEN Three men left the landing place of the airplane and started for Tickfall, four miles away. The Rev. Vinegar Atts arrived first because he was in a hurry, and ran every step. He staggered into the Hen-Scratch saloon in the last stages of physical exhaustion, and dropped down in a chair beside a table. Three negroes sprang to their feet, terrified by the colored clergyman’s appearance and manner. “Whut ails you, Vinegar?” Skeeter Butts exclaimed. “You look like you done been run by a ha’nt!” “Wusser ’n dat, nigger,” Vinegar panted, as he wiped the copious perspiration from his bald head, and reached out a trembling hand for the reviving drink which Figger Bush had thoughtfully brought him. “I done seen a chariot of fire come straight down from de glory of de Lawd!” Hitch Diamond glanced at the empty glass, and then nodded significantly to Skeeter Butts. “Don’t gib him any more, Skeeter,” he suggested. “De revun is done had too many drams already.” “’Tain’t so,” Vinegar grunted. “I ain’t drunk. I’m seein’—things!” “I ketch on,” Hitch chuckled. “I done seen things in my day, too. I seen a purple elerphunt wunst. I wus settin’ on de side of a puffeckly straight wall ticklin’ one of dese here ukuleles. Whar you been at? Whut else did you see?” “Been out in de swamp. Seen a chariot of fire come down outen de sky. I heard it zoonin’ fer a long time—sounded like a automobile. All de birds in de woods flew up to see it, an’ squalled like dey wus skeart to death. It lit out in de Little Moccasin prairie.” “Whut happened when she lit?” Figger Bush inquired. “I didn’t stay to see,” Vinegar sighed. “Fer a fack, I wus makin’ myse’f absent befo’ she lit.” Suddenly Skeeter Butts began to laugh. He slapped his brown hand upon his thigh and cackled like a hen. The more he laughed the funnier something got to him. “I knows whut ails Vinegar, brudders,” he snickered. “He’s done see a——” Skeeter’s assertion paused in midair, because the door of the Hen-Scratch saloon was pushed open, and the second man had arrived from Moccasin prairie. This man was a stranger, and was built on circular lines, round head, round eyes, round face, round body. His character and modes of thought and action also followed curved lines. There was nothing straight about him. “Good evenin’, brudders,” he greeted them. “My name am Red Cutt. Kin you-alls tell me whut town dis is?” “How come you don’t know whar you is at?” Skeeter asked suspiciously. “I jes’ landed,” Red Cutt remarked simply.