“What the devil are you talking about?” Flournoy demanded in a voice which was almost a scream.
“Us is gittin’ ready to die, Marse John,” Vinegar told him. “De paper is done printed de word about all de niggers havin’ dat new kind of epizootic, an’ you rickoleck when de yeller fever kotch us niggers all of us fell right down in de middle of de big road an’ died!”
Vinegar took a worn and ragged newspaper out of his pocket, unfolded it carefully, and handed it to Sheriff Flournoy. It was one of the copies of the Tickfall Whoop which Flournoy had given to old Isaiah Gaitskill several days before.
“You kin read whut de paper says yo’se’f, Marse John,” Vinegar said.
That was one time in Mr. John Flournoy’s life when he wished himself to be somewhere else immediately. He was an inveterate practical joker, but he was as tender-hearted as a woman, and it appalled him that he had administered this wound to his negro friends on this happiest day of the year.
“Boys,” he said painfully, “this article is not true—it is a joke! Somebody has been trying to scare you!”
“Who played dat joke on us, Marse John?” Vinegar Atts asked.
Flournoy took thirty seconds to consider his answer to that question, realizing as never before how very much the truth hurts, when you have to tell it!
“I did it!” he answered, and the words strangled in his throat.
There was one minute of perfect silence.