Skeeter waited a few minutes, then turned to his dreadful dream book and began to read, mumbling to himself.
Suddenly Skeeter raised his head with a jerk and gazed up at the moon. He sprang to his feet and began to count on his fingers. The others watched him with intense curiosity. Finally he howled:
“He’p me, niggers; he’p me quick! Whut day of de mont’ is dis?”
“Dis is de twenty-six’!” Vinegar panted. “De day of de full moon.”
“When did de new moon come in?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“De new moon wus de tenth!” Pap Curtain informed him.
“Oh, Lawdy!” Skeeter howled, his voice breaking into a sob.
He squatted down and held the book close to the fire, reading aloud to himself in a low tone.
“How many days is passed since de new moon, brudders?” Skeeter inquired in a trembling voice.
“Sixteen!” Vinegar replied, after making the count.
“Us all had our dreams las’ night, didn’t we?” Skeeter squealed.
“Lawdymussy, niggers, _we is saved_!” Skeeter screamed, waving his dream book about his head. “I done found a new page in dis book!”
“Listen to dis!” Skeeter panted: “‘Jedgments drawn from de moon’s age: Dreams on de fifteenth day atter de new moon _will not come to pass_; whatever bizzness a pusson undertakes dis day will prosper. De sixteenth day differs very little from de pre-ced-in’; but any undertakin’ on dis day will come to a foolish end.’”
“Bless Gawd!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, springing to his feet. “I’s gwine trust de Lawd an’ mosey back to Tickfall!”
“Hol’ on, niggers!” Skeeter squealed, as the others also sprang up.
Skeeter stooped over the fire and laid his little volume on the interpretation of dreams upon the hot ashes.
“I wish I had my dollar back,” he sighed, as the flames leaped up to the added fuel. “Dat shore wus a dam-fool book.”
He sat in the shade of a chinaberry tree in the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon, his gorilla-like hands nursing his fat knees, his fat stomach resting upon his lap, his moonlike baby face twisted into countless wrinkles as if he were just tuning up to cry. Tiny beads of nervous sweat rolled down his face and neck, and he mopped them off at intervals with an immense red bandanna handkerchief. He jiggered nervously with his ponderous feet, kicking up tiny clouds of sand from the sun-scorched earth. His pipe lay upon the ground by his chair where it had dropped unnoticed when he attempted to put it in his pocket. Skeeter Butts came out of the saloon, carrying his chair. He placed it beside the fat preacher, lighted a cigarette and entered with Vinegar into the silent fellowship of sympathy and understanding.