“Oh Jedus!” cried an excited woman, “Uh berry ’f’aid da’ t’ing gwine come Cumbee! Hummuch mile Orangebu’g stan’ f’um yuh?”
“Uh dunno hummuch mile,” Monday replied, “but uh know lion kin mek’um ’tween middlenight en’ dayclean, en’ ef uh ebbuh yeddy ’e woice roll een dish’yuh swamp, meself gwine git een me trus’me’gawd coonoo en’ uh fuh gone down Cumbee ribbuh, en’ uh nebbuh stop paddle ’tell uh git Beefu’t!”
A week passed. Like the waves from a stone thrown into still waters, the lion stories spread among the outlying plantations in all directions. Saturday night found Monday early at the store. Another convenient buckra at White Hall station had told that morning of the lion’s escape from the Edisto and his crossing over the intervening pinelands into the Salkehatchie Swamp and, as most people know, the Salkehatchie River, below the line of the Charleston and Savannah railway, becomes the Combahee. The lion was loose, therefore, in their own proper swamp, and might even now be riding a floating log down the current of their beloved river!
Monday stealthily slipped out. An hour later, when the negroes in and about the store had worked themselves up to a delectable pitch of excitement, an unearthly groaning roar came from the woods nearby. The night was hot, but the negroes almost froze with fear, and the clerk, in whom Monday had confided, raised no objection when the negroes within the store called in their companions from the outside and asked permission to bar the door.
“Oonuh yeddy’um, enty! Wuh uh tell you ’bout da’ t’ing’ woice?” said the negro who had seen lions in Walterboro.
Monday’s “Devil’s Fiddle” groaned again, and as its dying notes trembled on the summer night, a rush was made to close and bolt the windows. The kerosene lamps smoked and flared in the fetid air. The men listened and shuddered as the recurrent roars, now muffled, reached their expectant ears. The women wailed. “O Gawd! uh lef’ me t’ree chillun shet up een me house,” cried one. “Uh ’spec’ da’ t’ing done nyam’um all by dis time!”
“Shet yo’ mout’, ’ooman,” said a masculine comforter. “Hukkuh him kin eat en’ holluh alltwo one time? Yo’ chillun ent fuh eat.”
“Me lef’ my juntlemun een de house,” said another woman, with resignation, “Uh ’spec’ him done eat.”
“Wuh you duh bodduh ’bout loss uh man?” said the mother. “Man easy fuh git tummuch. Me yent duh bodduh ’bout man. Uh kin git anodduh juntlemun ef da’ t’ing nyam my’own, but weh uh fuh git mo’ chillun?”
“Go’way, gal, ef you kin fuh git anodduh juntlemun, same fashi’n Gawd help you fuh git anodduh chillun.”