Vinegar’s hand reached back gingerly in the vicinity of his coat-tail. That portion of his anatomy was a particularly soft and tender spot on him. He decided not to wait for the sheriff to escort him to jail on the toe of his official boot. Marse John could be powerful rough with cullud folks if he wanted to be, and now he appeared to be mad about something. Vinegar started down the hill toward the jail on his own volition; he went straight to the jail, but he didn’t stop there. He went on, and he kept going three days. Eight negroes had heard the sheriff’s announcement that he was going to search the house, and they crouched upon the roof with terror and despair in their hearts. They knew the white man would look for fire on the roof! “Dar ain’t no hope now, niggers,” Pap Curtain moaned. “Us mought as well jump off dis roof on our heads.” “Mebbe Marse John won’t come up on dis roof,” Little Bit remarked hopefully. “Dat white man don’t never leave nothin’ ondone, Little Bit,” Skeeter sighed mournfully. “He’ll be up on dis roof jes’ as shore as dar is a top to dis ole house.” “Yep, he’s comin’,” Hitch Diamond rumbled. “I wish I wus de tail of a buzzard—I’d hab some chance to fly off from here.” “Be still, folks; be still an’ lemme think!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed, seating himself on the trap-door and clawing at his head with both hands. “Mebbe I kin pull somepin off!” “I wish somepin would pull me offen dis roof!” Mustard retorted. While the search continued in the yard below, Skeeter sat and thought. Not a place where a spark of fire might linger was left uninspected in the yard, the outhouses, or the corners of the fence. Within the house, Flournoy was just as particular and minute in his search. First the entire lower floor was subjected to the closest inspection. Then he moved up the steps and searched in every room and closet. Then he moved up a third flight of steps, and stood looking at the contents of the attic, the accumulation of cast-off stuff of years, sniffing for the odor of smoke, glaring in the darkness for the smallest gleam of fire. He knew that house through associations which carried him back to his earliest childhood. With his electric flash-light he found the ladder in the attic which led up to the roof. He remembered climbing that ladder, or a ladder like that, fifty years before for a boyish view of the world from that high point. Slowly he climbed upward until his groping hands touched the trap-door above his head. Skeeter Butts suddenly rose from his seat upon the trap-door, belled his hands around his mouth, and said in a loud whisper: “Lay down flat on de roof, niggers, an’ say yo’ prayers! Lay down an’ be still ef you wants to save you lives!” Then the trap-door was slowly raised about a foot. Skeeter stepped upon the door with his full weight and mashed it back into its place. “Who is up on that roof?” Flournoy asked in a voice which cracked like a pistol shot.