“My Gawd!” he bawled. “Isaiah, I tell you de honest truth—I ain’t fitten to die. I ain’t made no kind of arrangements to die!”
“Dat’s right!” Isaiah agreed mournfully. “Dis here terr’ble news is done kotch me up short, too!”
“Lemme sot down!” Vinegar panted, as he walked to the curb and sat down with his feet in the gutter.
The paper shook in his trembling hand, and Vinegar glared at it with horror-stricken eyes. One imagines that a condemned criminal would gaze at a cup of poison with such a look. The man’s thick lips turned ashen, and when he snatched off his hat his scalp had become furrowed with little ridges.
To one unfamiliar with the negro character, it is almost incredible how much importance the members of that race attach to the printed word. Since that time, over half a century ago, when every negro received a copy of the Emancipation Proclamation and by the magic of print found himself free from bondage, it has never occurred to one of them to question the veracity of any article in book, magazine, or newspaper. Printed words have the potency of words of Holy Writ.
“O Lawdy!” Atts bawled. “Ain’t dis awful? My gosh, I never had no notion befo’ whut a mean, wuthless, onery nigger I is! Isaiah, I’s a bad nigger. Nobody don’t soupspicion how bad I is!”
“Gawd knows!” Isaiah remarked gloomily.
“Yes, brudder,” Vinegar whined, gasping for air. “Dat is whut is troublin’ my mind right now!”
“Sheriff John Flournoy gimme two papers,” Isaiah said. “I cain’t read nothin’. I’s gwine leave ’em wid you. I’s moseyin’ back to de hawg-camp to git ready to die!”
“Dat’s right, Isaiah,” Vinegar mourned. “Dat is all whut is lef’ fer us po’ niggers to do. Less all start to git ready to prepare to die!”