Then, seeing the bag of cotton waste on the ground, for some reason he got the notion that Hitch Diamond had hit him on the back with that bag. He picked it up and struck Hitch over the head with it.
Hitch cautiously raised his head and elevated his face toward the sky, his nose wrinkled up like the front of a washboard. The airplane was far away. He slowly turned his head and saw Vinegar standing beside him with a bag of cotton waste in his hand. His eyes stuck out like the buttons on an overcoat, and he rose from the ground and started for Vinegar with a bellow of rage which had made him famous in the pugilistic ring in the South.
As if in answer to a signal every negro rose from the ground and started a free-for-all fight, a rough-and-tumble affair which is the delight of the darky and generally does no great harm. Men and women pushed and pounded at each other, and grunted, and slapped faces, and wrestled, bouncing chunks of wood off of each other’s heads and going after each other’s skin like they were working by the job and wanted to get it all off right away.
Then a few not participating in the scrap glanced up and pointed, exclaiming: “Look! Look dar!”
Far up in the sunset sky, getting smaller and smaller as it climbed, the beautiful airplane passed into the purple and gold shadows of the closing day and disappeared from their sight.
There was an awed silence which was broken after a moment by the snarling voice of Pap: “Whar is dat Red Cutt gone at?”
“He’s done gone!” dozens of voices answered.
“Did he hab our money on him?”
“Yep, he tuck it all!” Vinegar howled.
“I said I’d make dat nigger fly!” Pap exclaimed. “An’ now he has done flew!”