He was an impressive figure today. He had draped himself in a long, white robe with a great red cross on the left breast and he looked not unlike one of the Prophets of old. He walked back and forth in the little circle surrounded by close-packed humanity, bending backward and forward, swinging his arms, shaking his head and rolling his eyes while he retold for the fiftieth time the story of the angel’s visit. The man was a natural actor and his voice had that sepulchral tone universally associated with Men of God, court criers and Independence Day orators. In the first row squatted the Happy Hill True Faith Choir of eight young women with grizzled old man Yawbrew, the tub-thumper, among them. They groaned, amened and Yes-Lorded at irregular intervals.
Then, having concluded his story, the evangelist launched into song in a harsh, nasal voice:
I done come to Happy Hill to save you from Sin,
Salvation’s door is open and you’d better come in,
Oh, Glory Hallelujah! you’d better come in.
Jesus Christ has called me to save this white race,
And with His Help I’ll save you from awful disgrace.
Oh, Glory Hallelujah! We must save this race.
Old man Yawbrew beat on his tub while the sisters swayed and accompanied their pastor. The congregation joined in.
Suddenly Rev. McPhule stopped, glared at the rows of strained, upturned faces and extending his long arms to the sun, he shouted:
“It’ll come I tell yuh. Yes Lord, the sign will come—ugh. I know that my Lord liveth and the sign will come—ugh. If—ugh—you just have faith—ugh. Oh, Jesus—ugh. Brothers and Sisters—ugh. Just have faith—ugh—and the Lord—ugh—will answer your prayers. … Oh, Christ—ugh. Oh, Little Jesus—ugh. … Oh, God—ugh—answer our prayers. … Save us—ugh. Send us the Sign. …”
The congregation shouted after him “Send us the Sign!” Then he again launched into a hymn composed on the spot:
“He will send the Sign,
Oh, He will send the Sign
Loving Little Jesus Christ
He will send the Sign.”
Over and over he sang the verse. The people joined him until the volume of sound was tremendous. Then with a piercing scream, Rev. McPhule fell on all fours and running among the people hugged one after the other, crying “Christ is Love! … He’ll send the Sign! … Oh, Jesus! send us the Sign!” The cries of the others mingled with his and there was a general kissing, embracing and rolling there in the green-walled grove under the midday sun.
As the sun approached its zenith, Mr. Arthur Snobbcraft and Dr. Samuel Buggerie, grotesque in their nondescript clothing and their blackened skins, trudged along the dusty road in what they hoped was the direction of a town. For three hours, now, they had been on the way, skirting isolated farmhouses and cabins, hoping to get to a place where they could catch a train. They had fiddled aimlessly around the wrecked plane for two or three hours before getting up courage enough to take to the highroad. Suddenly they both thrilled with pleasure somewhat dampened by apprehension as they espied from a rise in the road, a considerable collection of houses.
“There’s a town,” exclaimed Snobbcraft. “Now let’s get this damned stuff off our faces. There’s probably a telegraph office there.”
“Oh, don’t be crazy,” Buggerie pleaded. “If we take off this blacking we’re lost. The whole country has heard the news about us by this time, even in Mississippi. Let’s go right in as we are, pretending we’re niggers, and I’ll bet we’ll be treated all right. We won’t have to stay long. With our pictures all over the country, it would be suicidal to turn up here in one of these hotbeds of bigotry and ignorance.”
“Well, maybe you’re right,” Snobbcraft grudgingly admitted. He was eager to get the shoe polish off his skin. Both men had perspired freely during their hike and the sweat had mixed with the blacking much to their discomfort.
As they started toward the little settlement, they heard shouts and singing on their left.
“What’s that?” cried Dr. Buggerie, stopping to listen.
“Sounds like a camp meeting,” Snobbcraft replied. “Hope it is. We can be sure those folks will treat us right. One thing about these people down here they are real, sincere Christians.”
“I don’t think it will be wise to go where there’s any crowds,” warned the statistician. “You never can tell what a crowd will do.”
“Oh, shut up, and come on!” Snobbcraft snapped. “I’ve listened to you long enough. If it hadn’t been for you we would never have had all of this trouble. Statistics! Bah!”
They struck off over the fields toward the sound of the singing. Soon they reached the edge of the ravine and looked down on the assemblage. At about the same time, some of the people facing in that direction saw them and started yelling “The Sign! Look! Niggers! Praise God! The Sign! Lynch ’em!” Others joined in the cry. Rev. McPhule turned loose a buxom sister and stood wide-eyed and erect. His prayers had come true! “Lynch ’em!” he roared.
“We’d better get out of here,” said Buggerie, quaking.
“Yes,” agreed Snobbcraft, as the assemblage started to move toward them.
Over fences, through bushes, across ditches sped the two men, puffing and wheezing at the unaccustomed exertion, while in hot pursuit came Rev. McPhule followed by his enthusiastic flock.
Slowly the mob gained on the two Virginia aristocrats. Dr. Buggerie stumbled and sprawled on the ground. A dozen men and women fell upon him while he yelled to the speeding Snobbcraft for help. The angular Snobbcraft kept on but Rev. McPhule and several others soon overtook him.
The two men were marched protesting to Happy Hill. The enthused villagers pinched them, pulled them, playfully punched and kicked them during their triumphant march. No one paid the slightest attention to their pleas. Too long had Happy Hill waited for a Negro to lynch. Could the good people hesitate now that the Lord had answered their prayers?
Buggerie wept and Snobbcraft offered large sums
