Lighting one cigarette after another to bolster up his courage, he managed at last to put out a trembling finger and turn the book over so he could read the title-page. With the greatest difficulty he spelled it out, giving the peculiar negro pronunciation to the words as he uttered them:
“‘Af-ric-an Dream Book an’ Fortune Teller, containin’ de true in-ter-pre-ta-tion of dreams, an’ de numbers of de events to which dey ap-ply. Also prog-nos-ti-ca-tions an’ di-vi-na-tions by cards, dice, do-mi-noes, dreams, moles, an’ marks, phy-si-og-no-my, phy-si-ol-o-gy, signs, au-gu-ri-es, charms, an’ in-can-ta-tions——”
“My good gosh!” Skeeter almost screamed as he sprang to his feet. “Dis is a awful book! Half dem words don’t signify nothin’!”
For ten minutes he walked up and down under the trees muttering to himself, his face fear-stricken, his hands trembling, his body oozing with cold sweat.
Then with a mighty resolution he reached out for the book, folded it, and slipped it into his hip pocket.
“Dis book is done skeart me plum’ to death,” he sighed. “Ef I die, I’ll go to hell! I wonder whar Revun Vinegar Atts is at? I’s gwine to talk dis over wid some religium pusson!”
The Rev. Vinegar Atts occupied four chairs under a tree in front of the Shoofly church—his body on one, his feet on another, his arms spread wide across the back of two more.
“Howdy, Skeeter?” he exclaimed. “Fotch you out anodder chair from de chu’ch. I needs all I’m got.”
Skeeter looked him over and grinned. For a moment he forgot his fears in contemplation of this squat-legged, pot-bellied, moon-faced negro preacher, whose head was bald except for two tufts of hair, one over each ear, which made him resemble a mule wearing a blind bridle.