“Git away! You done made me burn up a shirt an’ waste a good night’s sleep. Dat’s plum’ plenty fer you! I’m always a brave nigger!”
Then eight negroes uttered a low moan of fright. The electric light had gone out, leaving them in darkness in that haunted house!
The electric lights went out every night at one o’clock, but they didn’t think of that.
Eight negroes left that kitchen in a hurry. They sped away in eight different directions, at various speeds, each according to his capability. But everyone did his best, each chased by a “ha’nt”—for thus doth conscience make cowards of us all.
The Consolation Prize
I
THE CLOUD ON THE HORIZON
“Skeeter, kin you rickoleck in your mind about a nigger man who called hisse’f Wash Jones?”
“Suttinly,” Skeeter answered. “He snuck in here about a year ago an’ tried to refawm Tickfall cullud sawciety. Us made him Fust Grand Organizer of de Nights of Darkness Lodge fer de whole worl’ an’ sont him out of town on his fust gran’ organize. Ain’t seed him since dat time.”