“How did you git rescued, Hitchie?” Skeeter asked tearfully.
“I hollered fer he’p till Marse Tom come up an’ onlatched de door from de inside,” Hitch told him.
“No fair hollerin’ fer Marse Tom now,” Skeeter said hopelessly. “We is all dead niggers.”
“Mebbe ef we wait till day Vinegar will see us an’ exoncise some sense—” Hopey began.
“Shut up, Hopey,” Skeeter interrupted. “Ef we waits till dat nigger preacher gits sense, us’ll be here till he dies fer he ain’t never aimin’ todes no sense. An’ ef he looks up in de dawn’s early light an’ sees eight kinky heads peepin’ at him over de edge of dis roof—he’ll shoot, an’ dar’ll be eight blackbirds bakin’ in a pie!”
“Lemme go take a peep at Revun Atts now, befo’ day,” Little Bit said, as he removed his shoes and began to crawl carefully through the darkness toward the edge of the roof. He was gone a long time, and the others waited his return in silence. At last he crawled back and said:
“I b’lieves dat Vinegar is asleep, brudders. It ’pears to me like he’s layin’ down flat, an’ ef you listens real good I think us kin hear him snore.”
“Dat don’t he’p us none,” Hitch Diamond grumbled. “Ef anything wakes him up, he’ll be more skeart dan ever, an’ he’ll beller like a cow.”
They sat down on the trap-door and waited a long time, each one trying to devise some plan of escape.
Finally, in desperation, Skeeter Butts removed his shoes and crawled to the edge of the roof.