Part 4

“Dis ain’t no fitten place to die, Marse Org,” Little Bit protested. “De buzzards will eat us up out here all unbeknownst to nobody. Less mosey back to town whar people kin see us die an’ keep de buzzards off.”

“Less hurry. I ain’t got long to live,” Org declared.

“We moves now,” Little Bit sighed miserably. “Dis wus shore a narrer escapement fer us.”

Locomotion was a difficult task for both of them. They were glad when they came to the fence and could use a stick with one hand and cling to the fence with the other. When they reached the road, they made wild and desperate gestures and stopped a little automobile.

“Whar you fellers been at?” Skeeter Butts asked as he opened the door for them to climb in beside him. “You look all peeked up.”

“Me an’ Marse Org, we been smokin’ rabbit terbacker,” Little Bit told him.

“Ho! Ho! He! He!” Skeeter Butts howled. “I done dat trick once myself. You-alls gwine try it agin?”

“Naw, suh.”

“I reckin not,” Skeeter laughed. “I tried smokin’ dat stuff twenty year ago an’ right now whenever I sees a bush of dat rabbit terbacker, I grabs a tree an’ begins to heave!”

Skeeter turned his machine and started back to Tickfall.

“Whar you want me to take you?” he asked.

“Home, quick!” Org sighed.

“Drap me at de Hen-Scratch,” Little Bit begged. “I ain’t got de cornstitution to ride no furder.”

Skeeter drove to Gaitskill’s home, lifted Org out of the machine and carried him to the porch. Org promptly stretched out flat on his back on the porch floor and called:

“Gince! Oh, Gince! Come here and help me! I’m dying!”

Coming in answer to his call, Miss Virginia’s face at first assumed an expression of fright at the sight of Org, then, glancing at Skeeter’s grinning mug, her uneasiness vanished.

“What have you been doing?” she asked Org.

“Smoking,” Org confessed. “Smoking a pipe!”

“Where is that pipe?”

Org thrust a trembling hand into the pocket of his coat and produced the briar-root.

“The idea!” Miss Virginia snapped, looking at the pipe with loathsome repugnance. “What else have you in your pockets? Let me see!”

Org turned the pockets of his trousers wrong side out and a number of strange and nameless things rolled out, things which could have value only in the eyes of a boy.

“Turn out your coat pockets!” Virginia commanded.

Org thrust his hand into his coat and handed Virginia a green-plush box.

The eyes of Skeeter Butts nearly popped out of his head.

“For goodness’ sake!” Virginia exclaimed in an angry voice as she seized the box.

“I was carrying it for luck, Gince,” Org said apologetically. “Little Bit said it was lucky, but—oh, I feel so sick!”

Virginia opened the box and brought forth a rabbit-foot surmounted on one end with silver. Finding that it had not been injured, she spoke in a mollified tone:

“After this, you understand that this plush box is mine, young man! Don’t you ever touch it again!”

“I won’t. It ain’t no good.”

“Skeeter,” she said. “Carry Org up-stairs to my room. I’ll lead the way.”

Skeeter lifted the prostrate boy and carried him where his sister led. He lingered around the bed where he had placed Org until he saw Miss Virginia open the drawer of a dressing-table and place the green-plush box within it and shut the drawer.

“You wants me to git de dorctor, Miss Virginny?” Skeeter asked.

“No. That will be all for you, thank you.”

When Skeeter stepped out upon the road beside the house, he noticed Colonel Gaitskill out in the horse-pasture, walking around in a circle defined by a clump of grass, his eyes glued upon the ground as if he was hunting for something.

“Have you done loss somepin, Marse Tom?” Skeeter inquired as he walked to where he was.

“Yes. I had a pipe that I have smoked for twenty years. I threw it out in these weeds this morning and bought a new pipe. But the new pipe is an abomination. I’m looking for the old one.”

“I think young Marse Org is got dat ole one,” Skeeter laughed. “Miss Virginny jes’ now tuck it offen him an’ lef’ it on de front porch.”

Gaitskill stooped and broke off the stem of a weed. He stripped the leaves from the straight stem, crushed them, and sniffed at the peculiar, sweetish, tobacco odor.

Skeeter caught the scent, reeled backward, clutched at his throat, grabbed a convenient tree and began to heave!

XI

AT AUCTION

When Skeeter Butts informed Mustard Prophet that his coveted rabbit-foot was in the Gaitskill home, Mustard nearly went into hysterics.

“My Gawd!” he wailed. “No tellin’ whut dem white chillun will do to dat foot—an’ mebbe I won’t never see it agin.”

“Dey ain’t gwine hurt it—Marse Tom’s house is safer dan a bank!” Skeeter protested.

“How’ll I ever git dat foot back outen dat house?” Mustard howled. “Of co’se de house is safer dan a bank. Us cain’t rob a white folk’s house.”

“How come you want it back ef it b’longs to Marse Tom?” Skeeter asked.

“It’s dis way, Skeeter,” Mustard said, trying to explain. “Eve’ything dat Marse Tom trusts to me, I keeps jes’ like it is when he gibs it to me. Ef he hands me a door-key, he needn’t ax me fer dat key fer ten year, but when he do, I’ll gib him dat key! Now, he gimme dat foot fifteen year ago, an’ he ain’t never mentioned dat foot since dat time nor seed it endurin’ all dem years; but ef he wuster come to de Nigger-Heel to-morrer an’ ax me, ‘Mustard, whar’s my rabbit-foot?’ my insides would bust open an’ be outsides onless I could say: ‘Here she am!’”

“I sees,” Skeeter Butts said. “You’s got a rep wid Marse Tom.”

“Dat’s right. I’s tryin’ not to ruin my rep.”

“I wish I’d ’a’ knowed dat little white boy had dat foot in his pocket,” Skeeter sighed. “I’d ’a’ picked his pocket or heldt him up or somepin’ like dat.”

“Too late fer dat now,” Mustard mourned. “Dat white boy found dat rabbit-foot down at ole Popsy’s cabin. Popsy lives back on de Gaitskill place in a cabin Marse Tom gib him, an’ dem pickaninnies wus playin’ aroun’ dar an’ swiped it. An’ ef Marse Tom ever ketches on dat I wus so keerless wid his royal foot dat I let a bat like ole Popsy git holt of it an’ run away wid it, an’ den let it git in de hands of dem chillun—Oh, Lawdy!”

Tears ran down the cheeks of Mustard Prophet. The loss of the luck-charm was a real tragedy to Mustard, for his life had been one of absolute fidelity in little things.

Every Southern man knows that the most unaccountable paradox in negro nature and character lies right here: you may choose the trickiest negro thief in Louisiana, give him the key to your money-chest, go to Europe and stay ten years, and when you return the negro will hand you the key, and the contents of the chest will be intact. Doubtless, he will open the chest a hundred times and investigate everything within it, but he will not betray his trust. Then, having surrendered the key and given an account of his stewardship, as he goes through the hall on the way out, he might pick up your gold-headed cane, stick it down his pants’ leg and hike!

But Mustard had always kept his record straight in all respects. He was faithful in that which was much and in that which was least. And now that his rabbit-foot had got in Gaitskill’s home, he found it impossible to stay away from that house. He must get it back before Gaitskill discovered it there and asked questions. He dared not tell Hopey where it had been located, for Hopey had an openwork mind and a garrulous mouth, and she might let something drop that would reveal the secret.

Mustard devoted his days to service on the Nigger-Heel plantation and came to town every night. He had to ride fourteen miles to make the round trip every twenty-four hours, but he felt easier if he could only be near the house where his rabbit-foot was concealed.

It was summer time, growing time, with the cotton “laid by.” Not much work to be done on the plantation and a great many days as well as nights could be spent in town. His presence around the Gaitskill house attracted no comment, for Mustard and his fat spouse had been associated with the Gaitskill family since the day they were born. They were as much of the place as the trees that grew on the lawn and their presence was no more unusual.

Mustard, in the rôle of Hopey’s helper, contrived to run a great many errands up and down the back stairs of the Gaitskill house, trying with each trip to get closer to his luck-charm, at least close enough to see it and to know that it was still there and safe. But he could never muster quite enough courage to enter Miss Virginia Gaitskill’s private room.

Saturday afternoon came, the afternoon when every negro in Louisiana who can acquire a little money to spend when he gets to town, puts on his best clothes and leaves the plantation.

Each village fills up with colored folks. Each darkey has his own idea of what constitutes fine dress and on this parade he sees no reason for wearing something showy without being able to show it. If he wears a red undershirt he keeps his overshirt unbuttoned so the showy thing will show. If he wears a pair of red socks, he keeps his trousers rolled up nearly to his knees, and sometimes one can see a hundred negroes who look like they are fixed for wading. If he possesses a colored handkerchief, be sure to look for it in the upper pocket of his coat, one corner sticking out!

If he has anything to sell, he brings it to town. Stock is auctioned upon the street, horses are swapped, lies are exchanged, knives, pistols, “gamblin’-hands,” conjures, and luck charms, all exchange owners.

Mustard mingled with this crowd in gloomy preoccupation. His mind and his heart were centered upon a green-plush box in the top dresser-draw of a young lady’s boudoir—as inaccessible, so it seemed to him, as the moon!

A number of men converged, forming a laughing crowd in front of the court-house, and listened to the raucous voice of an auctioneer:

“Old Jinx” was for sale by auction.

“Gentlemen, this here is a mule that is known to everybody in this parish. He’s got the legs on him and he’s got the bones on him, and he’s got a good, sound mind in a good, sound body, both ripened by long years of toil and experience. Some of you remember when Jinx first came to Tickfall Parish, but none of you can remember how old Jinx is now and how old he was when you first saw him. You can estimate the age of a cow by the rings on her horns and the age of a tree by the concentric rings on its trunk, and the age of a horse or mule by the teeth. But Jinx is an exception to all rules. He’s a mystery. He has no pride of ancestry, no hope of posterity, and his future is behind him. How much am I bid for Jinx?”

There were guffaws of laughter and sly jokes passed among the men, but there were no bidders.

“Don’t be afraid of Jinx, gentlemen!” the auctioneer pleaded. “He’s done a lot of work in his time and he’s got a lot more work in his system if anybody can get it out. He’s perfectly harmless, a woman or a child can drive him or ride him or work him in the field. He’s as deaf as a post, so you can cuss him in any known language without causing offense to the cussee. He’s nearly a hundred years old, I reckon, but his age ain’t nothing against him. I knew a man who was one hundred years old and he married a woman who was ninety years old and they had a little baby that was born with a pair of spectacles on his nose and a full set of teeth. How much am I bid for Jinx?”

“Five dollars!” some wag shouted.

“Five! Five! Five! I’m bid five!” the auctioneer began with a monotonous, bark-like chant. “Five dollars, I’m bid, only five! Somebody make it six, make it six, make it six! Six dollars—somebody bid six, as a token of love and esteem for old Jinx—the only mule which has survived the Civil War, the Spanish-American War, the recent Mexican War, and the mule behind that dragged the guns in the great world war.

“Veteran and survivor of four great wars, and yet this mule never smelt powder or heard a cap pop! This mule with all his rich and varied experiences, is like a feller who spends a dollar riding on a merry-go-round. He spends all his money, gets off at the same place he got on, and where’s he been at? Nothing but a round trip for Jinx! To my positive knowledge, I’ve auctioned him off in front of this court-house twenty-two times in the past twenty-two years! Am I bid six?”

“Six!”

Then began the monotonous pleading and chanting of the auctioneer, his singsong appeal for seven dollars, interspersed with feeble jokes about Jinx.

As he stood leaning against a tree in listless inattention, Mustard Prophet saw Miss Virginia Gaitskill pass in an automobile with Captain Kerley Kerlerac. Ten minutes later he saw Mrs. Gaitskill enter the Tickfall bank, of which Colonel Gaitskill was president. Casting his eyes about him, he beheld Orren Randolph Gaitskill playing with Little Bit on a plot of grass beside the court-house. Then Mustard woke up!

“Dis here is my Gawd-given chance to git my rabbit-foot,” was the idea which exploded in his brain, and he started for the Gaitskill home with all the speed in his body.

XII

THE HIGHEST BIDDER

Attracted by the crowd, Org and Little Bit became interested witnesses curious to know who would finally acquire old Jinx. This was the first auction Org had ever seen, and without an idea of the financial obligations involved in the transaction, he began to help the matter along.

When it seemed that Jinx was going to be knocked down to somebody, Org, at the solicitation of the auctioneer, bid eight!

“Eight dollars, eight, eight, eight!” the auctioneer whooped, seizing the bid like a woodpecker swoops upon a ripe June-bug. “Who’ll make it nine?”

It was a hot day. The perspiration streamed down the face of the auctioneer and the old mule stood with bowed head, panting for breath, utterly oblivious to the crowd around him. The auctioneer draped one arm over Jinx’s protruding hip-bone, hanging there for support, while he chanted:

“Nine, nine, nine—somebody make it nine!”

“Why don’t you do what that gentleman asks you?” Org inquired of Little Bit. “He asks you to make it nine—why don’t you do it?”

“Nine dollars!” Little Bit exclaimed in a frightened tone.

“Ten!” Orren Randolph Gaitskill called.

“Ten, I’m bid; ten, I’m bid—somebody’s either drunk or crazy, by jacks! Ten, I’m bid—who’ll play damphool and make it ’leven?”

“’Leben!” Little Bit chimed.

The auctioneer jerked off his big wool hat, slapped it against the bony side of the mule till it popped like a pistol and howled:

“Wake up, Jinx! You old varmint—you are surrounded by friends! Wake up and show your manners!”

The mule raised his head, shut one eye with an absurdly sleepy wink, dropped one big leathery ear forward, and let his head sag down until his nose almost touched his knee.

“Twelve dollars!”

This was more than the auctioneer could endure. He must ascertain the source of these rival bids. A shout of laughter rose from the crowd of men which shook the windows in the stores, as the auctioneer stooped and looked between the men and his red-rimmed eyes rested upon two boys, one white, one black!

“Who bid that twelve dollars?” he snapped, glaring at the boys.

“Me,” Org confessed.

“You want to buy this old mule?”

“Er—yes, sir.”

“Have you got twelve dollars to pay for it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where’s that money—show it to me!”

“It’s up in Gince’s room,” Org said without explaining who Gince was. “I’ll have to go after it.”

“Go! Hurry!” the auctioneer snapped, wiping the perspiration from his face. “What sort of business man are you, leaving your pocketbook lying around? Here, you, Little Bit! Hold old Jinx till this boy comes back!”

Mustard lost no time in getting to Gaitskill’s home, but the resolution which had given speed to his feet oozed away when he arrived, and left him a timorous negro, hesitant, ignorant of how to proceed further to secure the object he had come after. Mustard had no practical experience in this sort of work to guide him now. He realized dimly that it was not becoming that the trusted overseer of a great plantation should sneak into his employer’s home and take something from it, even though the thing he took really belonged to him. But he knew that this was the only way he could get the luck-charm without letting Marse Tom know.

He reconnoitered and assured himself that no one was in the house. He walked through the kitchen, entered the back hall, and climbed cautiously up the back steps. Walking quietly, he went through the upper hall toward the front and stood at last looking into the dainty, exquisite room of the girl in the home.

It took him a long time to muster the courage to go in. It was a pretty room, with ferns and photographs and flowered cretonne, an old rosewood bed of exquisite beauty of design, beside it a small electric lamp with a rose-colored shade. Two windows, shaded by loosely hanging rose-colored silk, a rosewood writing-desk. Mustard saw all this unconsciously. His eyes were set upon the rosewood dressing-table against the wall between the two windows. On the table lay a gold mesh purse; beside the purse were three rings, whose gems could have bought Mustard a barrel full of rabbit-feet!

Of all the treasures in that room, Mustard wanted the least valuable, measured by pecuniary standards. If he had been dying of starvation, he would not have stepped within that room to lay a thievish hand upon a single object. But he had to have that rabbit-foot!

One step at a time, moving with fear and trembling, he started toward the dressing-table. Frightened, he backed out into the hall again; venturing once more, he got almost to the table, then backed again. He stepped to the far end of the hall and looked anxiously down the back steps, fearful that someone might have entered the kitchen. Then he returned to the room, ventured, backed out, moved forward, moved sidewise, hesitated, side-stepped, moved forward slowly and at last laid his black, square-shaped, labor-hardened hand upon the beautiful white scarf upon the dresser!

One of Orren Randolph Gaitskill’s favorite games was to play “Indian.” This consisted in sneaking about the house in absolute silence, dodging behind the doors, crawling under the beds and couches and tables if he heard anyone approaching and when a suitable opportunity presented itself, he would jump out upon some member of the household with a blood-curdling yell!

Org was playing Indian now for a purpose. He was by no means sure that his sister would approve his purchasing a mule for twelve dollars even with his own money, and he planned to slip up to her room and get his money out of his own purse in her dressing-table drawer without her knowledge.

He noiselessly opened the front door and entered the reception room. As he sneaked up the steps, his eyes came level with the floor of the hallway above, he saw Mustard Prophet, backing and filling, giving a ridiculous illustration of a steamboat trying to make a difficult landing.

Great is the imagination of boyhood!

Org caught this thing in an instant: Here he was, a wild and savage Indian slipping up upon a steamboat of pioneers while the boat was trying to land upon the banks of the mighty Mississippi. Mustard Prophet, backing and filling, moving up and moving back, was the steamboat!

Mustard’s negro wife went into Miss Virginia’s room every day to straighten up. Mustard helped Hopey around the house all the time. The fact that Mustard was in the house, or even in his sister’s room, made no difference to the boy. That part of it was all right.

Orren was determined that Mustard should not see him. He lay down flat upon the stair-steps and crawled with the greatest caution toward the top.

Just as the steamboat navigated the dangerous waters of Miss Gaitskill’s room and threw out a line on the dressing-table, the Indian peeped around the door-jamb!

It is better to abandon the rhetorical and imaginative now; it is too easy to forget which is who, and get the Indian and the steamboat mixed.

What Org saw as he peeped around the door was Mustard Prophet, his nervous black hand resting upon the dressing-table. Slowly Org raised himself to his feet and took a big breath and jumped.

There was a loud whoop, which Org imagined was the equivalent to a blood-curdling yell!

It curdled Mustard Prophet, all right!

The negro was absolutely petrified! He stood like a statue carved of ebony, apparently nothing alive about him except the eyes, which got bigger and burned with fires of terror. Fright sometimes paralyzes temporarily; nothing moves, even the mind stands still. The victim helpless, disaster swoops down like an eagle upon its prey.

Orren was disappointed.

“Why didn’t you jump when I hollered?” he exclaimed in an aggrieved tone. “I’m playing Indian.”

Orren was completely blind to the negro’s pitiful fright. It was fully a minute before Mustard could utter a word. The vital forces had ceased, and they started slowly as when a street-car grips the vital force of the cable and gets going.

“Dat yell wus so disturbin’ dat I felt—er—sorter disturbed, Marse Org,” he sighed weakly, walking toward the hall and resting his hand upon the door-jamb. “I wus plum’ putrified wid bein’ so skeart!”

“You don’t act like it,” Org snorted. “The next time I yell like that, you jump!”

“I will, Marse Org, I shore will!” Mustard promised him fervently. “I got to hurry down to de kitchen now. Goo-good-by!”

Org jerked open the drawer of the dressing-table, flirted a green-plush box which contained a rabbit-foot out of his way, picked up his own little purse and extracted twelve dollars.

Slamming the drawer shut, he went racing back to the court-house to pay for his mule.

XIII

THE HIRELINGS

When Org stopped in front of the court-house and placed the twelve dollars in the auctioneer’s sweating, dirt-begrimed palm, that functionary bellowed:

“Twelve, I’m bid, once! Twelve, I’m bid, twice! Twelve, I’m bid, three times, and sold! Sold to this boy for twelve dollars! Go git your mule, son!”

The auctioneer sought a convenient place to quench a consuming thirst. Old Jinx stood in the middle of the street, his eyes closed, his big, loose ears hanging down like a couple of banana-leaves that had broken and were flapping down around the stalk of the plant. Org caught hold of one big ear and spoke down into its fuzzy, dusty depth, exactly as a man speaks into the mouth-piece of a telephone:

“Hello, hello! Wake up!”

Little Bit placed the end of a small leading-rope into Org’s hands and announced:

“You done bought a mule, Marse Org. Whut you gwine do wid him?”

“What?” Org asked.

“You cain’t leave dis here mule standin’ still an’ blockin’ up de street,” Little Bit explained. “Dey’ll arrest dis mule an’ put him in de holdover like dey does all de stray cows, an’ it’ll cost you five dollars to git him out.”

“I haven’t got any five dollars,” Org announced. “That man took all the money I had.”

“I reckin we better lead him somewheres,” Little Bit laughed.

“Help me up on him,” Org commanded. “I want to ride him now.”

“You ain’t got no bridle,” Little Bit demurred. “Dat mule ain’t know whar you want him to go ’thout no bridle onless you kin gee-haw him, an’ you ain’t know nothin’ about ploughin’. An’ he’ll shore take you back whar he came from ef you ain’t guide him somewhar else.”

“I guess we better go ahead of him and show him the way,” Org proposed. Then gazing at the closed eyes, he said: “I guess we better take him home and let him take a nap; he looks awful sleepy to me.”

“He’s like a nigger,” Little Bit snickered. “A mule an’ a nigger kin sleep standin’ up an’ walkin’!”

At the foot of the hill near the Gaitskill home, Jinx uttered a loud groan and sank down upon his side, slapping the earth with a jolt that shook the ground under their feet.

“Dar now, he shore come down wid a looseness like he’s fixin’ to die,” Little Bit exclaimed. “Ef he dies here in dis town, it’ll cost you fo’ dollars to hab him hauled away.”