One hour later the two boys crawled up on the log and sat down, trembling, weak, beyond any weakness they had ever experienced. “I guess we got poisoned with something, Little Bit,” Org remarked. “I feel pretty bad.” “Dar ain’t been many cullud folks as sick as I wus an’ lived through it,” Little Bit replied with weak boastfulness. “Niggers is like a mule: dey don’t git sick but one time an’ atter dat, dey die. I wus wuss off in de last hour dan I ever is been. It muss hab been somepin I et.” “I been heap sicker than you were,” Org declared. “You lived through it—you say so yourself. But me, I’m dying now!” “Dis ain’t no fitten place to die, Marse Org,” Little Bit protested. “De buzzards will eat us up out here all unbeknownst to nobody. Less mosey back to town whar people kin see us die an’ keep de buzzards off.” “Less hurry. I ain’t got long to live,” Org declared. “We moves now,” Little Bit sighed miserably. “Dis wus shore a narrer escapement fer us.” Locomotion was a difficult task for both of them. They were glad when they came to the fence and could use a stick with one hand and cling to the fence with the other. When they reached the road, they made wild and desperate gestures and stopped a little automobile. “Whar you fellers been at?” Skeeter Butts asked as he opened the door for them to climb in beside him. “You look all peeked up.” “Me an’ Marse Org, we been smokin’ rabbit terbacker,” Little Bit told him. “Ho! Ho! He! He!” Skeeter Butts howled. “I done dat trick once myself. You-alls gwine try it agin?” “Naw, suh.” “I reckin not,” Skeeter laughed. “I tried smokin’ dat stuff twenty year ago an’ right now whenever I sees a bush of dat rabbit terbacker, I grabs a tree an’ begins to heave!” Skeeter turned his machine and started back to Tickfall. “Whar you want me to take you?” he asked. “Home, quick!” Org sighed. “Drap me at de Hen-Scratch,” Little Bit begged. “I ain’t got de cornstitution to ride no furder.” Skeeter drove to Gaitskill’s home, lifted Org out of the machine and carried him to the porch. Org promptly stretched out flat on his back on the porch floor and called: “Gince! Oh, Gince! Come here and help me! I’m dying!” Coming in answer to his call, Miss Virginia’s face at first assumed an expression of fright at the sight of Org, then, glancing at Skeeter’s grinning mug, her uneasiness vanished. “What have you been doing?” she asked Org. “Smoking,” Org confessed. “Smoking a pipe!” “Where is that pipe?” Org thrust a trembling hand into the pocket of his coat and produced the briar-root. “The idea!” Miss Virginia snapped, looking at the pipe with loathsome repugnance. “What else have you in your pockets? Let me see!” Org turned the pockets of his trousers wrong side out and a number of strange and nameless things rolled out, things which could have value only in the eyes of a boy. “Turn out your coat pockets!” Virginia commanded.