From their high perch on top of the house, the eight negroes could look down upon the entire village of Tickfall. Appalled by the unexpected outcome of their ruse, they were terrified beyond description as they beheld an entire village suddenly awake from slumber to most intense excitement and activity. First, they saw the electric lights flash up in every house in Tickfall. A moment later a large shaft of light flared across the darkness as a man opened a door, stepping out in front with shotgun or pistol. A moment later a number of quick flashes of light in front of each house and the sound of shots. It was thus that each man in the village sought to arouse his neighbors, the promiscuous shooting being a fire signal in all Louisiana villages.
Far over in the other end of the town the negroes beheld a great chimney belching glowing sparks from its top, and then from that station a siren-whistle sounded its weird screech, telling the inhabitants of Tickfall that the immense water-pumps were working and the fire-plugs were throbbing, waiting for the attachment of the hose.
In the center of the town two great lights began to whip the darkness, and another siren sounded, indicating that the gasoline fire-engine was leaving its station for its wild run up the hill to the Gaitskill home.
Then from all parts of the town came the honk of auto-horns and the racket of cars running with the muffler open; and the noise of running, shouting men hurrying to the scene, shooting firearms in the air; and the rattle of hose wagons and ladder trucks pulling the steep grade; while on top of the hill, standing on the Gaitskill lawn, was Vinegar Atts, negro preacher, Boanerges, son of thunder, bawling in a voice that would almost wake the dead:
“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”
Eight negroes, squatting like monkeys on the top of Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s house prayed to die. They didn’t want to live another minute. They did not think it was worth while. They were in the helpless predicament of some man who has inadvertently started some powerful piece of machinery and does not know how to stop it. They had certainly started something. What the townful of fire-fighters would do to them when they caught them was something they did not care to think about. They preferred to die. If the chariot of the Lord would just swing low, there would be eight eager passengers swinging to the back step, waiting for the invitation: “Come up higher!”
The fire-engine stopped in front of the house; the ladder wagons thundered into the horse-lot on the side of the lawn; the multitude of fire-fighters came romping over the lawn; the hose was unwound screechingly and dragged to the nearest fire-plug.
Eight terror-stricken negroes lay flat on their stomachs on the roof moaning in anguish, pleading with de good Lawd to come an’ git ’em now, befo’ de white folks got to ’em fust, while Vinegar Atts, raving like a maniac, pranced up and down the lawn, bellowing like a bull of Bashan:
“Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r! Fie-ur-r!”
“Where is the fire?” a volunteer fireman screamed.
Vinegar gesticulated in the general direction of the Gaitskill homestead and whooped: “Fie-ur-r!”
“Shut up, you fool!” Sheriff Flournoy whooped, hitting Vinegar in the middle of the back with his fist, a blow like the kick of a mule. “Shut up that noise and show us the fire!”
Up to that moment it seemed to Vinegar Atts that the whole hillside was ablaze. He looked around with startled eyes. The Gaitskill home was in total darkness. Not a glow of fire anywhere that needed the aid of the fire department, for all the fires were those in the engine, the automobiles, and the cigarettes and cigars of the men. For the first time the thing looked to Vinegar like a false alarm. A number of men gathered around him, and he became frightened.
“Befo’ Gawd, white folks,” he stammered hoarsely, “dar wus a fire a little while ago, but I don’t know whar-at it is now. It must hab went out.”
“You went to sleep and dreamed it!” Flournoy snapped angrily.
“Naw, suh, I ain’t been asleep at all!” Vinegar declared. “Of co’se, I napped a little early in de night, but I cain’t really say I sleeped. An’ I wus wid awake when de fire bu’st loose. I seen it wid my own eyes.”
“What was burning?” Flournoy asked.
For a moment Vinegar could not recall. Then he remembered.
“Why, boss, my own coat-tail wus a burnin’! Look at it! All de swing-tail part of my Prancin’ Albert coat is ruint—de lef’ hind tail is plum’ burnt off!”
One of the men backed Vinegar to where he could stand in front of an automobile light and inspected the rear of his preaching coat. Vinegar was right.
“What do you make of it, sheriff?” someone asked.
“Aw, I don’t know,” Flournoy said with disgust. “You can’t get any sense out of this old fool.”
“I’s tellin’ all I knows, Marse John,” Vinegar said defensively. “Ef dar warn’t no fire, how come my coat-tail is burnt off?”
“You may have burnt your coat-tail off three days ago, for all I know,” Flournoy remarked.
“Naw, suh; dis coat-tail smells of fresh fire, ............