During Skeeter’s speech, Vinegar Atts sat beside the table, his hands spread out, palms downward, upon the top.
Suddenly the table began to move! It slid slowly forward, then slipped backward, then tipped up on one end!
“Stop shoving dis table aroun’!” Pap Curtain exclaimed.
Vinegar Atts moved his chair back so that all could see his feet and his knees. Then the table slowly lifted a few inches, and fell with a sliding motion, hitting Pap Curtain a jolt in the stomach, and almost upsetting the smoky oil lamp which occupied the center of the table.
“Hey, dar!” the Reverend Tucky Sipe exclaimed, as he grabbed at the tottering lamp. “Whut ails dat table to make it cut up dat way?”
Vinegar Atts emitted a deep, audible sigh, and his eyes were fixed upon the ceiling in a look of abstracted reverence and devotion.
An awed silence fell upon the men, and Skeeter Butts ostentatiously moved his chair close to the open door. If anything happened, Skeeter intended to lead the getaway.
The heat of the night was intense and overwhelming. Above their heads countless mosquitoes, attracted by the light, circled ceaselessly with an annoying whine of wings. Far away came the rumble of a summer thunderstorm. From a pine tree in the graveyard the voice of a screech-owl quavered like the cry of a child lost in the darkness.
Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe promptly arose and turned the side pockets of his pantaloons wrong side out—a sure cure for screech-owls!
The men moved back from the table and stared at it with popping eyeballs. Vinegar sat beside it alone, his palms outspread upon its rough surface.