There was an older oriental man who lived in town. Perhaps due to race or other factors unstated this man had been singled out to receive a large portion of the attention of the boys of the neighborhood. It was, for example, tradition that his outhouse be tipped year after year on Halloween eve — to trick is better than to treat. This Hallows Eve my father and two of his friends had taken it upon themselves to do this dirty deed and were gliding like shadows across the darkened field that guarded the approach to their target. Caution was essential and every nerve was taut, for a shotgun with a load of rock-salt oft awaited the unwary trickster.

As the skirmish line of three closed the last yards to the outhouse the taste of victory was already on the tongue. Then my father’s friend, to his left and middle in the line, vanished. Moments later followed a throaty, muted cry for help. The tables had been turned, the outhouse moved in anticipation leaving waiting the gaping hole, and this year the old man had won.

— Malan D. Rampton, cited in Halloween and Other Festivals of Death and Life