While the search continued in the yard below, Skeeter sat and thought. Not a place where a spark of fire might linger was left uninspected in the yard, the outhouses, or the corners of the fence. Within the house, Flournoy was just as particular and minute in his search. First the entire lower floor was subjected to the closest inspection. Then he moved up the steps and searched in every room and closet. Then he moved up a third flight of steps, and stood looking at the contents of the attic, the accumulation of cast-off stuff of years, sniffing for the odor of smoke, glaring in the darkness for the smallest gleam of fire.
He knew that house through associations which carried him back to his earliest childhood. With his electric flash-light he found the ladder in the attic which led up to the roof. He remembered climbing that ladder, or a ladder like that, fifty years before for a boyish view of the world from that high point.
Slowly he climbed upward until his groping hands touched the trap-door above his head.
Skeeter Butts suddenly rose from his seat upon the trap-door, belled his hands around his mouth, and said in a loud whisper:
“Lay down flat on de roof, niggers, an’ say yo’ prayers! Lay down an’ be still ef you wants to save you lives!”
Then the trap-door was slowly raised about a foot. Skeeter stepped upon the door with his full weight and mashed it back into its place.
“Who is up on that roof?” Flournoy asked in a voice which cracked like a pistol shot.
“By gosh, Marse John!” Skeeter squalled. “You mighty nigh skeart de gizzard out of me. I thought a ha’nt was tryin’ to lift dat door!”
At the sound of Skeeter’s voice Flournoy laughed. In the many years that Skeeter had been his “pet nigger,” his “favorite insect,” Flournoy had found him in so many unexpected places that he had ceased to be surprised.
“What are you doing up on this roof?” Flournoy asked, pushing up the trap-door and looking at Skeeter’s outline in the dark.