The fire-engine stopped in front of the house; the ladder wagons thundered into the horse-lot on the side of the lawn; the multitude of fire-fighters came romping over the lawn; the hose was unwound screechingly and dragged to the nearest fire-plug.
Eight terror-stricken negroes lay flat on their stomachs on the roof moaning in anguish, pleading with de good Lawd to come an’ git ’em now, befo’ de white folks got to ’em fust, while Vinegar Atts, raving like a maniac, pranced up and down the lawn, bellowing like a bull of Bashan:
“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”
“Where is the fire?” a volunteer fireman screamed.
Vinegar gesticulated in the general direction of the Gaitskill homestead and whooped: “Fie-ur-r!”
“Shut up, you fool!” Sheriff Flournoy whooped, hitting Vinegar in the middle of the back with his fist, a blow like the kick of a mule. “Shut up that noise and show us the fire!”
Up to that moment it seemed to Vinegar Atts that the whole hillside was ablaze. He looked around with startled eyes. The Gaitskill home was in total darkness. Not a glow of fire anywhere that needed the aid of the fire department, for all the fires were those in the engine, the automobiles, and the cigarettes and cigars of the men. For the first time the thing looked to Vinegar like a false alarm. A number of men gathered around him, and he became frightened.
“Befo’ Gawd, white folks,” he stammered hoarsely, “dar wus a fire a little while ago, but I don’t know whar-at it is now. It must hab went out.”
“You went to sleep and dreamed it!” Flournoy snapped angrily.
“Naw, suh, I ain’t been asleep at all!” Vinegar declared. “Of co’se, I napped a little early in de night, but I cain’t really say I sleeped. An’ I wus wid awake when de fire bu’st loose. I seen it wid my own eyes.”