“So dey sets er watch down by de spring-house door, an’ Pomp an’ Dave do de watchin’. Pomp he were er mighty young un, an’ don’ know nuffin but pickin’ down de row an’ er-shakin’ uv he foots arter he done; but Dave he were er hard ole sinner, done cotch in ole age wid conviction, an’ he tryin’ his bestest ter git ’ligion. He done sot on de mourners’ bench fur two weeks, an’ de ’stracted meetin’ mos’ ober; done been prayed fur by ever’ ’zorter in de straw, er-groanin’ all de time lack er ox er-dyin’, but hit ’pear lack he des couldn’ git hit.
“Well, ’bout dat time dey put Dave on de watch, an’ de brederin’ dey tell him dat dey gwine pray on des de same, an’ Brer Jonas, de prophesyin’ ’zorter, he promise Dave dat if he wrastle mightily wid de sperit, he gwine ter see er sign.
“So ever’ night dey watch, but ever’ night de cream done off de pans lack hit were erfore, dough we knows dat Dave hain’t taken hit, ’case if er nigger ebber gwine ter be hones’, hit would be unner hard conviction lack dat Dave was er-wrastlin’ wid.
“Ole Miss she ain’ lack de way things is gwine on, an’ she ’low one day dat we all was mighty po’ niggers, dat cain’t ketch sech er low-down t’ief, an’ Dave he was so mizerbul an’ po’ly, ’case he’s feared de big meetin’ close ’dout he gittin’ ’ligion, dat Brer Jonas he say fur Dave ter leabe Pomp in de Quarters, so’s he kin wrastle erlone wid de sperit down by de spring-house.
“When Brer Jonas gib dat out, Dave he see dat Ole Marse’s two boys, Johnny an’ Jeems, es fine er pa’r er rascals es ebber toted er stone-bruise, been lis’enin’ fru hit all, an’ he see ’em fetchin’ in some green watermillions fum de garden ’dout yellin’ fur er nigger ter kim an’ tote ’em in, but he were so mizerbul he don’ tek no notice.
“Hit were er mighty dark night de fust time dat Dave watch by hese’f, an’ dough hit hain’t gwine rain, de heat light’nin’ streck er match now an’ den, an’ hit mek hit ’pear lonesomer ter Dave; but dar hain’t nuffin kin pester him, ’case he’s unner conviction, an’ he hain’t gwine be erfeared if he see de sign, ’case, ’cordin’ ter Brer Jonas, hit gwine ter be de sign er de promise, an’ if he des kin see hit, he sho’ gwine know he got ’ligion at las’.
“So Dave he sot on de steps an’ wait. Hit were er mighty solumn, furgitable place whar de spring-house were, an’ bimeby de whup’-wills ’gin ter call ’way ober yander, an’ Dave he ’low ter hisse’f dey allus do dat way ter mek lonesome folks feel mo’ lonesomer; den er frog in de spring branch right ’longsider Dave opin he mouf an’ say sumpen mighty short an’ den shet up, but hit mek dat Dave jump putty nigh outen he skin.
“Dave sot an’ steddy an’ steddy ’bout he sins twel he see sumpen ’way off yander lack er star, but Dave he hain’t skeered ertall, ’case he been waitin’ all erlong fur de sign. Den he sees supen er-shinin’ lack two stars, an’ den sumpen white riz up berhin’ ’em, an’ Dave he fall ter stribin’ lack Brer Jonas tell him ’bout, an’ de two sumpens kim er nigher.
“Dave he keep on stribin’, but he stribe wid one eye opin now, an’ de two sumpens an’ de white thing kim er nigh an’ er nigher. Den he fall to stribin’ wid bofe eyes opin now, an’ opin wide, when one er de ghostes fotch er groan, an’ de white fire kim outen he nose an’ mouf.
“Now Brer Jonas he say fur Dave ter ’spute wid de sign when he see hit, dat he mout know hit were de true sign, but when Dave see dat fire—de berry fire er de debil, he say after’ards, des er burnin’ on de inside—he ain’ wait fur ter ’spute, but des tek ’em es dey looks, an’ light out fum dar an’ mek tracks. Dat fool nigger he shake lack he got de agur de res’ er dat night, an’ when mornin’ kim he done got ’ligion good an’ fas’—plum skeered inter hit—an’ Brer Jonas he ’low, sorter private lack ’mongst de bredrin’, but mighty solumn, dough, dat hit hain’t de fust time dat he see ’ligion kim outen er green watermillion. Fur hit git out somers, ’case Marthy she say dat Ole Marse hab Johnny an’ Jeems sont up ter his office one day, when she were dustin’ ’roun’, an’ she ’low she hear Ole Marse say he hain’t gwine hab no sech carryin’s on on his place, er-skeerin’ de niggers inter fits, an’ she ’low hones’ dat he whup ’em bofe, an’ I reckon he did hit, ’case Ole Marse wa’n’t no han’ ter tek any foolishness.