“Repeat dese here words after me,” Pap snarled. Then the words came in short phrases, easy to repeat: “I solemnly swears on de Bible an’ all de opossums dat I won’t say nothin’ about de doin’s of dis night, now an’ ferever, amen. An’ ef I does, I hopes I may die!” “An’ ef anybody blabs, I’ll be de nigger dat’ll cause yo’ onhappy end!” Pap warned them menacingly. “Suppose de white folks ax questions?” Little Bit inquired. “Dat’s easy,” Pap replied with a sneering grin. “Tell eve’ybody dat axes you dat all us niggers thinks Marse Tom Gaitskill ole house is ha’nted. Dat’ll be aplenty to say to white folks.” Dazzle Zenor walked over and put her arms around Skeeter Butts. “You is a brave cullud man, Skeeter,” she told him. “I loves you.” Skeeter disengaged her arms and pushed her away. “Wus you lyin’ to me when you telerphomed dat robbers wus in dis house?” he asked. “Naw, suh, I wus jokin’. I wanted to see wus you brave enough to come an’ rescue me—an’ you wus, Skeeter, an’ I loves you mo’ dan ever.” But Skeeter evaded her outstretched arms as she advanced again for a clinch, and with a contemptuous wave of his yellow hand he delivered this good-night message: “Git away! You done made me burn up a shirt an’ waste a good night’s sleep. Dat’s plum’ plenty fer you! I’m always a brave nigger!” Then eight negroes uttered a low moan of fright. The electric light had gone out, leaving them in darkness in that haunted house! The electric lights went out every night at one o’clock, but they didn’t think of that. Eight negroes left that kitchen in a hurry. They sped away in eight different directions, at various speeds, each according to his capability. But everyone did his best, each chased by a “ha’nt”—for thus doth conscience make cowards of us all. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Consolation Prize I THE CLOUD ON THE HORIZON “Skeeter, kin you rickoleck in your mind about a nigger man who called hisse’f Wash Jones?” “Suttinly,” Skeeter answered. “He snuck in here about a year ago an’ tried to refawm Tickfall cullud sawciety. Us made him Fust Grand Organizer of de Nights of Darkness Lodge fer de whole worl’ an’ sont him out of town on his fust gran’ organize. Ain’t seed him since dat time.” “He’s done snuck in agin,” Figger informed him. “He’s all here—de same flossy vest an’ de same big watch-chain ’thout no watch to it, an’ de same mouthful of chawin’ terbacker. But his mouth is done changed.” “Whut done happened to his mouth?” “He’s growed two long mustaches whut comes down de sides of his nose plum’ below his chin. He looks like a nigger whut had swallowed two cat-squirrels an’ lef’ deir tails hangin’ out!” “Whut you reckin he done dat fer?” Skeeter asked. “Done disguised hisse’f.” “He ain’t refawmin’ nothin’, is he?” Skeeter asked uneasily.