The time had come when Chunk was ready to act.  On the night in question a hot wind arose which blew from the little burial-place on the hill toward the house.  “Hi! now’s de charnce ter fix dat ar bizness!” and he made his preparations.  Shortly before midnight he crept like a cat under the overseer’s window.  The heavy snoring rose and fell reassuringly, sweet as music to Chunk’s ears.  Not so the angry, restless growling of the savage bloodhound chained within.  “But you doan kotch me dis yere time fer all yer fuss, Marse Grip,” the negro muttered.  “I done hab yer brekfus’ ready fer yer!  Dat’ll settle yer hash,’ and with deft hand a piece of poisoned meat was tossed close to the brute’s feet as Chunk hastened away.  Jute was next wakened and put on the watch.  An hour later there came from the soldiers’ cemetery the most doleful, unearthly sounds imaginable.  No need for Jute and his confederates to arouse the other negroes in the quarters.  A huddled frightened gang soon collected, Aun’ Jinkey among them so scared she could not speak.

“Marse Perkins ought to know ’bout dis,” cried Jute.

The suggestion was enough.  The whole terror-stricken throng rushed in a body to the overseer’s cottage and began calling and shrieking, “Come out yere! come out yere!” Confused in his sudden waking and thinking he was mobbed, he shouted through the window, “I’ll shoot a dozen of yer ef yer don’t clar out.”

“Marse Perkins, des you lis’n,” rose in chorus from those far beyond the fear of mortal weapons.

In the silence that followed the rushing wind bore down to them a weird, dismal howl that in Perkins’s ears met every ghostly requirement.  His teeth began to chatter like castanets, and snatching his jug of corn whiskey he swallowed great draughts.

“We des tink you orter know ’bout dis,” said Jute.

“Cert’ny,” cried Perkins in his sudden flame of false courage.  “I’ll light a lantern and take twenty o’ you hands round that place.  Ef thar’s a cuss yonder makin’ this ’sturbance we’ll roast ’im alive.”

In a moment or two he dressed and came out with a light and his gun.  Two revolvers were also stuck in his belt.  As he appeared on the threshold there was a prolonged yell which curdled even his inflamed blood and sent some of the negro women into hysterics.

“Come on,” shouted the overseer hoarsely, “thirty of yer ef yer afraid.”

The crowd fell back.  “We ain’ gwine ter dat ar spook place, no mattah w’at you do to us.”

“Perkins, what is the matter?” Mr. Baron was heard shouting from the house.

“Reckon you better come out yere, sir.”

“Are the hands making trouble?”

“No sir, sump’n quar’s gwine on, what we kyant mek out yit.”

Mr. Baron, wrapped in his dressing-gown, soon appeared on the scene, while Aun’ Suke’s domain contributed its quota also of agitated, half-dressed forms.  Chunk could not resist the temptation to be a witness to the scene and in a copse near by was grinning with silent laughter at his success.