“How we gwine git dis old fool woked up?” Skeeter snapped. “Take a brick off de top of de chimney an’ throw it down at him,” Little Bit suggested. They wrenched off a brick and threw it. It hit the ground with a loud slap. Vinegar slept on. “I knowed dat would be de come-out,” Hitch grumbled. “Bricks won’t wake up a nigger onless dey land on his head!” “Whut we gwine do?” Skeeter wailed. “I never wus as tired roostin’ on a roof in my life.” Nobody answered, and there was silence while all pondered the problem. The next suggestion came from Figger Bush. “I read in a book about a man dat escaped out of jail by tyin’ his clothes togedder an’ makin’ a rope. Mebbe ef we tear up our clothes an’ make a rope an’ let Little Bit down to de groun’——” “Who—_me?_” Little Bit demanded. “Naw! But I’ll he’p hold de rope while Hitch Diamond climbs down.” “I got de idear, niggers!” Pap Curtain put in. “Less set somepin on fire an’ throw it down by de side of Vinegar. Dat’ll wake him up all right, an’ it’ll gib a good light fer him to see his friends by.” “How come you didn’t think of dat sooner, Pap?” Skeeter asked, as he removed his coat and began to pull off his shirt. “I contributes my shirt fer de blaze!” Thereupon they tied Skeeter’s shirt into a tight wad, struck a match, and set fire to it. When the blaze grew strong, they tossed it over the edge of the roof. Their aim was good—too good. When Vinegar waked up he found the lawn glowing with light, and throwing fantastic shadows upon the sides of the house—shadows that resembled giant figures, figures which possessed hoof and wing and beak and claw and forked tail and leering looks and sneering mouths, all the malice of deformity. And he also saw that the rear portion of his swing-tail preaching coat was on fire! Then he split the silence of the night with a cry which makes every nerve quiver whenever it is heard. Vinegar’s voice had been trained for vociferation by years of exercise in calling for strayed hogs in the swamp, by preaching to somnolent negroes to whom his voice must carry through slumberland, and by camp-meeting singing where sound took the place of symphony. That cry was louder than any human voice had ever uttered in Tickfall: “Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!” Smothering the fire on the tail of his Prince Albert coat with his hands, Vinegar seized his automatic shotgun and fired six times in the air. Then he emptied two automatic pistols into the circumambient atmosphere, and above all the roar of his artillery he continued to bellow: “Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!” The night watchman down in the town heard that cry and pulled a pistol from his pocket, firing six times in the air. Running into the court-house, he pulled frantically at the bell-rope, and the wild clangor of the alarm reverberated through the empty streets. Then voices answered: “Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!” IV