“I climbed up to look fer fire on de roof, Marse John,” Skeeter said, artfully blocking the door with his foot so that the sheriff could not easily raise it higher. “Dis roof is powerful slick, Marse John. You better not climb out. Dar ain’t no fire up here nohow!”
“Come on then; let’s go down,” the sheriff answered, backing down the ladder.
Skeeter followed willingly, latching the trap-door securely behind him as he descended.
At the foot of the ladder, the sheriff turned his flash-light into Skeeter’s face.
“Where’s your shirt, Skeeter?” he asked.
“I didn’t take no time to put on no shirt, Marse John,” Skeeter chuckled. “When I heard de kunnel’s house wus on fire, I jes’ nachelly abandoned all de clothes I didn’t need.”
“That was right,” Flournoy approved. “You’re a white nigger!”
V
By the time Flournoy and Skeeter had reached the ground, the volunteer firemen had grown weary and gone home. The engines, hose-wagon, ladder-trucks, automobiles, all had gone home.
“I’ll leave you here for the rest of the night, Skeeter,” Flournoy remarked as he turned his flash upon his watch to see the time. “I think Vinegar Atts must have delirium tremens, or something like that.”