He turned and walked to the house, stopping on the porch.
“Listen to me, everybody!” his authoritative voice commanded. “I am going to search this house for fire. You men search all the stables and outhouses.”
Vinegar’s hand reached back gingerly in the vicinity of his coat-tail. That portion of his anatomy was a particularly soft and tender spot on him. He decided not to wait for the sheriff to escort him to jail on the toe of his official boot. Marse John could be powerful rough with cullud folks if he wanted to be, and now he appeared to be mad about something. Vinegar started down the hill toward the jail on his own volition; he went straight to the jail, but he didn’t stop there. He went on, and he kept going three days.
Eight negroes had heard the sheriff’s announcement that he was going to search the house, and they crouched upon the roof with terror and despair in their hearts. They knew the white man would look for fire on the roof!
“Dar ain’t no hope now, niggers,” Pap Curtain moaned. “Us mought as well jump off dis roof on our heads.”
“Mebbe Marse John won’t come up on dis roof,” Little Bit remarked hopefully.
“Dat white man don’t never leave nothin’ ondone, Little Bit,” Skeeter sighed mournfully. “He’ll be up on dis roof jes’ as shore as dar is a top to dis ole house.”
“Yep, he’s comin’,” Hitch Diamond rumbled. “I wish I wus de tail of a buzzard—I’d hab some chance to fly off from here.”
“Be still, folks; be still an’ lemme think!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed, seating himself on the trap-door and clawing at his head with both hands. “Mebbe I kin pull somepin off!”
“I wish somepin would pull me offen dis roof!” Mustard retorted.