“Look at dat!” Little Bit exclaimed, as he scrambled to a safe place on the top of the bar, where he danced up and down in his high-heeled pumps. “Eve’ybody is tryin’ to kick eve’ybody else!”
In a moment the crowd was so cramped for room that they had to abandon that mode of combat and began to fight with their fists. They milled around and around, pounding, scrouging, punching with elbows, while their voices rose in a mighty diaphony of imprecation and abuse.
“Lawd! Lawd!” Little Bit exclaimed in a prayerful voice from his place of safety on the bar. “Eve’ybody is tryin’ to hit eve’ybody else!”
In the fury of battle the men sought other weapons and found the numerous chairs most convenient. In the jam they found it impossible to swing the chairs and hit with them, so they held the chairs before them, as a lion-tamer does, and charged their opponents, holding their heads low to avoid being clubbed. The resemblance to a lot of milling, horning cattle struck Little Bit at once, and from his vantage-point upon the bar he announced the procedure:
“Eve’y bully is tryin’ to hook eve’ybody else!”
Skeeter Butts had seen as much of the fray as he could stand, so he ran behind the bar, seized his automatic pistol and fired it in the air, holding the weapon out of the window. He knew how dangerous such a performance was, for it might suggest to the angry negroes the use of their own guns. But he took the chance with the hope that the town watchman would hear the firing and come to the rescue.
The negroes took no notice of the pistol-firing, for some of them had found new and mightier weapons. There were half a dozen tables in the room, and when some of these were overturned, the men wrenched the legs off, and with shouts of glee brought these mighty clubs into action.
“Gawdlemighty!” Little Bit screamed. “Eve’ybody is tryin’ to kill eve’ybody else!”
Figger rushed to the electric-switch and turned off the lights.
“Bless Gawd!” Little Bit bawled. “Eve’ybody cain’t see eve’ybody else!”