“What was burning?” Flournoy asked.
For a moment Vinegar could not recall. Then he remembered.
“Why, boss, my own coat-tail wus a burnin’! Look at it! All de swing-tail part of my Prancin’ Albert coat is ruint—de lef’ hind tail is plum’ burnt off!”
One of the men backed Vinegar to where he could stand in front of an automobile light and inspected the rear of his preaching coat. Vinegar was right.
“What do you make of it, sheriff?” someone asked.
“Aw, I don’t know,” Flournoy said with disgust. “You can’t get any sense out of this old fool.”
“I’s tellin’ all I knows, Marse John,” Vinegar said defensively. “Ef dar warn’t no fire, how come my coat-tail is burnt off?”
“You may have burnt your coat-tail off three days ago, for all I know,” Flournoy remarked.
“Naw, suh; dis coat-tail smells of fresh fire, Marse John,” Vinegar protested. “Ef you don’t b’lieve me, smell it yo’se’f!”
“You listen to me, Vinegar Atts,” Flournoy said angrily. “I’m going to search this house and these premises for a fire, and if I don’t find one I’m going to kick that burnt coat-tail of yours clear down the hill to the jail, and I’ll put you in there for forty years for disturbing the peace! Understand?”