VIIITHE LOST FOOT
A moving-picture of the performances of Mustard Prophet when he discovered the loss of his rabbit-foot would be a valuable contribution to the silent drama. Alone in that big plantation-house, with no one to talk to, he spluttered with language like an erupting volcano, and cut as many capers as a cat having a fit.
After that he mounted the fastest horse on his plantation and rode to town, sweeping down upon his wife like a cyclone of wrath and fear and consternation.
“Dat ole bat stole dat rabbit-foot,” Mustard bellowed.
“I don’t b’lieve it,” Hopey replied, trying to soothe him. “Dat’s a good ole man.”
“He’s a good ole stealer,” Mustard howled. “He knows how to rob de hen-roost an’ hide de feathers. Lawd, when I think how heavy he sets in de amen cornder of de Shoofly meetin’-house, singin’ religion toons an’ foolin’ de people all de time—I tell you dat nigger ought to be churched!”
“But I don’t see what he wanted to take dat rabbit-foot fer,” Hopey declared. “He’s tole me plenty times dat he didn’t b’lieve in foots; he b’lieves in faith.”
“It’s wuth a thousan’ dollars—dat how comehe took it!” Mustard bawled. “Mebbe it’s wuth a millyum; how does I know? Marse Tom, he’s got it all fixed up wid silver trimmin’s an’ in a plush box. Dat ain’t no cheap, common, nigger rabbit-foot. Dat’s a royal rabbit-foot, an’ it fotch Marse Tom all de luck he ever had. He tole me dat his own self.”
“Why don’t you go to Popsy an’ ax him fer it?”
“Dat ole lyin’ thief will say he ain’t got it, an’ ain’t never had it, an’ don’t know nothin’ about it,” Mustard wailed. “Atter dat, whar is I at?”
“Tell him dat it b’longs to Marse Tom, an’ you want it back,” Hopey urged.
“Yep. An’ dat ole gizzard will swell up an’ sw’ar he ain’t got nothin’ of Marse Tom’s an’ offer to go down to de bank an’ prove it befo’ Marse Tom’s own face. I don’t dast let Marse Tom know I done loss dat rabbit-foot. De kunnel would kill me dead!”
“I never thought of dat,” Hopey sighed.
“You don’t think about nothin’,” Mustard wailed. “Here I is in de wuss mess I’m ever got into, an’ you ain’t think about nothin’. Look at dis here jam. If Marse Tom finds out I loss de rabbit-foot, he’ll kill me; ef I ax dat ole Popsy-sneak to gib it back, mebbe he’ll blab dat it’s lost, an’ Marse Tom will hear about it, an’ I’ll git kilt jes’ de same. Anyhow, dat foot is plum’ gone an’——”
“Why don’t you git somebody to git it back feryou?” Hopey asked. “Ef Popsy stole it, it ’pears to me like somebody oughter be able to steal it back.”
“Suttinly, ef dey kin find it,” Mustard said, the light of new hope shining in his eyes. “I’d gib somebody one hundred dollars to steal it back fer me agin.”
“Dat’s plenty lib’ral,” Hopey said. “Mebbe ef you’ll hunt aroun’ you kin find somebody.”
Mustard quieted down and gave himself to deep meditation, trying to think of someone sufficiently bold to hold up Popsy and extract the treasure from his pocket.
Hopey took this opportunity to leave the room. She had heard a great deal from Mustard, and she did not care to be around when he began to mourn and lament again. She was a fat woman, and desired calm environments, and sought the ways of peace. Moreover, she did not attribute the same value to the rabbit-foot that Mustard did. It seemed to her that Gaitskill had given it to Mustard to keep for his own, and that he cared nothing for it, had forgotten all about it; he could not attach much importance to its possession when he had never made inquiry about it in all the time that Mustard had guarded it so zealously.
But Mustard was the best negro overseer in Louisiana for this reason as much as any other: he took care of things, regarded his employer’s property as more valuable even than his own, andeverything belonging to Marse Tom was to be kept in order for the day when he should give an account of his stewardship.
After a while, Hopey thought of her friend, Dazzle Zenor. Dazzle had good sense, possessed the wisdom which comes from many varied experiences, and she would be able to help her now. She heard certain noises in the next room, which indicated that Mustard was getting ready to explode again, so she hastily left the house and went to town.
Dazzle lived in Ginny Babe Chew’s boardinghouse in Dirty-Six. So Hopey climbed pantingly to the second floor of this house and knocked on her door.
“Who’s dat?”
“Hopey Prophet is done come on bizzness. Open dis door!”
“Whut you come to see me fur?” Dazzle asked promptly, after she had admitted Hopey.
Dazzle was a woman who met all the exactions of Ethiopian beauty. Her skin as black as jet, her teeth like milk, her eyes so dark that they had a bluish tinge, slim and strong and graceful, an actress, a dancer, a singer, she was the dusky belle of Tickfall. Every negro man who had married anybody in the past four years had first proposed to and been rejected by Dazzle.
Many of Dazzle’s enterprises were highly adventurous, and she was always fearful and suspicious.So when Hopey hesitated to begin, Dazzle’s tone became sharp with anxiety:
“Whut you come to see me fur?” she repeated.
“I come to consult wid you about a little scrape our fambly is got into, Dazzle,” Hopey began. “Us is liable to hab plenty trouble onless somebody kin he’p us.”
“Whut’s done busted loose now?” Dazzle asked easily. Her mind was now at rest, for nothing that could happen to Hopey’s family could impinge on any of Dazzle’s previous escapades.
“Mustard is done loss his rabbit-foot!” Hopey exclaimed in tragic tones.
Dazzle laughed.
“I’ll gib Mustard a hatful of dem things. I’m got about twenty.”
“But dis here is a royal rabbit-foot,” Hopey said with emphasis.
“I never heerd of dat kind, but ’tain’t no ’count whutever it is,” Dazzle smiled. “I done tried all kinds, an’ I knows.”
“But dis rabbit-foot b’longed to Marse Tom Gaitskill,” Hopey informed her, “an’ Mustard lost it, an’ Marse Tom will kill Mustard ef he don’t git it back.”
“No doubts,” Dazzle chuckled. “White folks ain’t got no real good sense, an’ nobody cain’t tell whut dey will do.”
Then Dazzle listened while Hopey told the tale of the disappearance of the rabbit-foot. Dazzlewas not much impressed with this story of another’s misfortune, but at the last one sentence stimulated her interest:
“Mustard says he will pay one hundred dollars to whoever gits his foot back.”
That was speaking in language which Dazzle could understand. She sprang to her feet.
“I’ll earn dat hundred dollars right now,” Dazzle proclaimed. “I’ll go out to Popsy’s cabin an’ pull his nose till he gibs up dat foot.”
“’Tain’t possible, Dazzle,” Hopey said. “We don’t want Marse Tom to know dat de foot is lost. Ef you go to pullin’ noses an’ skinnin’ shins, Popsy will beller, an’ Marse Tom will hear about dat.”
“He’d shore howl,” Dazzle agreed, reluctantly abandoning that plan. “Well, I’ll go out and make love to dat ole man, an’ sneak de rabbit-foot outen his pocket.”
“Any way will do dat will git de foot back ’thout makin’ too much of a rookus, Dazzle,” Hopey said. “We don’t want no row, no nigger scrape, no loud noise, and no white folks mixin’ in.”
“White folks is shore good mixers,” Dazzle said, wincing at the recollection of several plans of hers which had been rudely frustrated by the interference of the whites. “I’ll see whut I kin do.”
IXSKEETER BUTTS
At the time that Hopey was in conversation with Dazzle Zenor, Mustard was in deep thought. At last a name came into his darkened and troubled mind which was like a blaze of light illuminating all his perplexities: “Skeeter Butts!”
Ten minutes later he entered the Hen-Scratch saloon and was told that the man he sought was in a little room in the rear.
“I’m shore glad to find you so easy, Skeeter,” Mustard said in a relieved tone. “Ef you had been out of town I would hab fotch’ my troubles to you jes’ the same, whar you wus.”
“Dis is whar you gits exputt advices on ev’ything,” Skeeter laughed as he sat down and lighted a cigarette.
Why is it that people make confidants of barkeeps?
And whom will we tell our troubles to when the world is made safe for prohibition?
Skeeter was a saddle-colored, dapper, petite negro, the dressiest man of any color who ever lived in Tickfall. His hair was always closely clipped, the part made in the middle of his head with a razor. His collars were so high that they made him look like a jackass, with his chin hanging over a whitewashed fence. His clothes wereso loud that they invariably proclaimed the man a block away.
He was the “pet nigger” of all the well-to-do white people in the town, who invariably took him upon their hunting and fishing trips; his dancing, singing, gift of mimicry, and certain histrionic gifts had given him a place in many amateur theatrical exhibitions in Tickfall, among both whites and blacks; and with all his monkey trickery he, nevertheless, had the confidence of all the white people, and could walk in and out of more houses without a question being asked as to the reason for his presence there than any white or black in the little village.
Among the negroes he was Sir Oracle. He was matrimonial adjuster in courtship, marriage, and divorce; he was confidential adviser at baptisms and funerals; his expert advice was sought in all matters pertaining to lodge and church and social functions. In short, he represented in Tickfall colored society what Colonel Gaitskill did among the white people.
“Dis is whar you gits exputt advices on eve’ything,” Skeeter laughed, for he knew his standing among his people.
“I don’t want advices. I wants a hold-up man,” Mustard said gloomily.
“How come?”
“A feller stole somepin from me, an’ I wants somebody to steal it back,” Mustard explained.
“Bawl out wid it,” Skeeter snapped. “Don’t go beatin’ de bush aroun’ de debbil. Talk sense!”
Mustard hesitated for a long time, opened his mouth once or twice as if about to speak, shook his head, and seemed to think better of it.
“Well,” Skeeter snapped, “why don’t you tell it?”
“I don’t know how to begin,” Mustard sighed.
“Begin at de fust part an’ tell dat fust,” Skeeter ranted. “Is you been hittin’ Marse Tom’s bottle?”
Under this sort of prodding, continued for some time longer, Skeeter finally got Mustard started, and got the story. It is not necessary to repeat it, although Mustard’s way of telling what happened and what he thought of Popsy would be interesting.
“An’ now, Skeeter,” Mustard concluded, “de idear is dis: Popsy stole my rabbit-foot, an’ I want you to steal it back. Rob de ole man of my foot an’ fotch it back to me, an’ I’ll gib you one hundred dollars.”
“Pay in eggsvance?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“No,” Mustard said.
“Bestow a little money in eggsvance to keep my mind int’rusted.”
“Suttinly. Ten dollars cash down—you got to pay it back ef you don’t do no good.”
“I’ll git de foot all right,” Skeeter said confidently.
“Don’t be too shore, Skeeter,” Mustard warnedhim. “You might git in jail, an’ ef you does, don’t ax me to he’p you.”
“You means to say ef I bust into ole Popsy’s cabin an’ steal de foot, an’ he gits me arrested, you won’t esplain nothin’ to de cote-house?”
“Nary a single esplain!” Mustard proclaimed solemnly. “Dat’s jes’ whut I means. I ain’t gwine git mixed up in dis no way an’ no how! Ef you gits in jail, I won’t open my mouth ef dey hangs you on a tree.”
Skeeter pulled out of his pocket the ten-dollar bill which Mustard had just given him and spread it out upon his knee, smoothing it with his yellow fingers.
“Gimme fo’ more ten-dollar bills to spread out on top of dis tenner,” Skeeter commanded.
Mustard promptly handed over the money.
“Dis here detecative stealin’ job is a risky bizzness,” Skeeter proclaimed. “I ain’t never got at nothin’ yit as dangersome.”
“I knows it, Skeeter,” Mustard agreed gloomily. “Ef you ain’t keerful, you’ll git a bullet in you; an’ ef dat sad misforchine happens to you I won’t even come to yo’ fun’ral. I ain’t gwine mix wid dis at all.”
Mustard arose, walked through the barroom, climbed upon his horse, and departed for the Nigger-Heel plantation.
Skeeter sat for a long time, considering all that Mustard had told him, the money still spread outupon his knee. Then he arose and pocketed the money, walked out to the rear, and sat down in a chair under his favorite china-berry tree.
Two boys up the street diverted his attention for a moment. They had a long, black bullwhip, and were taking turn-about trying to see who could “pop” it the loudest. The “cracker” on the whip was nearly worn off, and they decided to plait an entirely new cracker, one that would pop like a pistol. Neither had a pocket-knife, and they could find nothing with which to remove the old cracker. They tried to saw it off with a piece of sharp glass, abandoned that in favor of a piece of sharp-edged tin can, then took a sharp rock and tried to beat it off.
When they saw Skeeter Butts they swooped down on him.
“Lend us de loant of yo’ pocket-knife, Skeeter,” Little Bit asked.
Skeeter thrust his hand into his pocket, found nothing, and answered:
“I left it inside de barroom. I’m glad of it, because you’s be shore to cut yourselfs.”
Skeeter leaned his chair against the tree, sat down, and placed the heels of his shoes in the front rungs of the chair, tipped his hat down over his eyes until the bridge of his nose was invisible, and sat motionless. Except the tiny column of smoke that curled up from his cigarette, there was scarcely a sign of life.
The two boys wandered around to the front of the saloon. Then a bright idea came to Little Bit:
“Marse Org, less git a match an’ burn de cracker offen dis ole whup.”
“Where’s the match?”
Little Bit led him into the saloon and conducted him to the little room in the rear. There, upon a table, they found a box of matches, and Org struck one and applied it to the cracker, while Little Bit held the whip.
The cracker easily caught fire and burned freely. When it was near to the rawhide end of the lash Little Bit gave the whip a quick jerk and the flaming cracker flew off the end. The boys laughed at the success of their plan, picked up a handful of twine strings which lay around the floor, and walked out.
Boylike, they never looked to see where the flaming cracker went. They didn’t care where it went. They didn’t want it. They went out the way they had come, and ran up the street and far away.
Skeeter was undisturbed until Dazzle Zenor passed and roused him.
“I got a big job befo’ me,” she said.
“Me, too,” Skeeter replied.
“My job am a secret,” Dazzle offered.
“Mine, too,” Skeeter responded.
“I’s fixin’ to make a good bunch of money,” Dazzle boasted.
“I’ll either make money or git in jail,” Skeeter said. “I’m got a detecative job.”
“My job is harder,” Dazzle smiled. “I pick pockets.”
“I bet you is flirtin’ wid a jail, too,” Skeeter asserted.
“Mebbe so. I cain’t tell you no more——”
Suddenly she stopped and stared at the closed door in the rear of the saloon through which tiny spirals of smoke were issuing by way of the cracks.
“Is you fumigatin’, Skeeter?” she asked.
“Fumigatin’ whut?” Skeeter asked, then ran to the door and threw it open.
The room was filled with smoke and a pile of old trash and newspapers in one corner was ablaze.
With a loud whoop, Skeeter and Dazzle ran through the smoke to the fire; from the door which entered into the barroom, Figger Bush came in with a bucket of water, yelling like a wild man. It was all over in a minute.
“Good-by, Skeeter!” Dazzle laughed. “Mebbe us’ll meet in jail.”
“Dat fire is a bad sign for me, Dazzle,” Skeeter sighed. “Troubles is gittin’ ready to happen to me.”
“Things will shore happen whar a white boy an’ a pickaninny monkeys aroun’,” Dazzle told him.
XRABBIT TOBACCO
When the inveterate smoker throws away a pipe, it may be safely presumed that the pipe has some potency. A briar-root sweetens with age, mellowing and ripening in its own nicotine, and then it becomes impossible. So it happened that Colonel Gaitskill was compelled to an act of abandonment. The pipe that had solaced him for years was hurled far over in a clump of weeds in the horse-pasture.
One pair of sharp eyes saw the act of abandonment and watched to see where the pipe fell. One pair of nimble feet carried their owner to the spot where the forsaken thing had fallen. A pair of eager hands laid hold upon it, and Orren Randolph Gaitskill found himself in proud possession of a real pipe.
If Orren’s Sunday-school teacher had arrived at that particular moment and had been disposed to instruct this youth upon the injurious effects of nicotine, he could have run a broom-straw down the stem of that pipe and brought it out all black and shiny with poison. Finding a cat who never had smoked, did not even “chaw,” he could have forced that straw between pussy’s teeth, drawing it lengthwise through the sides of her mouth, thus wiping off the nicotine upon her tongue. He could then have waited a few minutes and had afree show for himself and Orren Randolph Gaitskill: the exhibition of a suffering cat, dying miserably in a fit.
But, no! Orren had not the remotest idea of permitting a cat, or even a Sunday-school teacher, to share the delights of that pipe with him. He intended to smoke it in exclusive partnership with his colored friend, Little Bit.
Orren found Little Bit sitting on a curb-stone in front of the Hen-Scratch saloon, and exhibited the treasure.
“Dat’s a purty good pipe, but whar’s yo’ terbacker?” Little Bit asked.
“You ought to furnish that,” Org replied. “I’ve got the pipe and the matches.”
“I ain’t got none.”
“Don’t yo’ mammy smoke?”
“Naw. She dips.”
“Don’t your father smoke?”
“Ain’t got no paw. He’s daid.”
“Well, then: can’t you borrow a little tobacco from some of your friends?”
“Ain’t got no frien’s, excusin’ you.”
“What about Skeeter Butts?”
“He ain’t no frien’ of our’n. He’s mad at us because we sot his saloom on fire wid dat hot whup-cracker.”
“I never saw a colored person with as little as you have,” Orren said irascibly. “You haven’t got nothin’.”
“Dat’s a fack. Dat’s de nachel way niggers is. But I knows whar dar is plenty rabbit terbacker.”
“That’s as good as any, I’m sure,” Org said. “Lead me to it.”
A short distance on the edge of the town, Little Bit led Org into a wide pasture, along the edge of which there ran a little branch. He hunted a few minutes in search of a plant which is known in other places as “life everlasting,” but in Louisiana is called “rabbit tobacco.”
This can be said for it: the oldest pipe-user, dying for want of a smoke, will not smoke the weed called life everlasting. He lets rabbit tobacco alone. It has the flavor and the odor of tobacco. It also has an effect, when used, which invariably reminds every man of the time when he smoked his first cigar.
“Dar she is!” Little Bit exclaimed, pouncing upon a dry weed. “Dis here plant will gib us aplenty.”
He stripped off the dry leaves, crushed them in his hands and, assisted by Org, he packed the pipe-bowl. They walked to the edge of a little thicket and sat down upon a convenient log to enjoy their smoke. A long, level pasture stretched out before them, dotted here and there with grazing cattle, ending across the way with a rail fence, beside which grew a row of trees.
Org produced a box of matches, laid it upon the ground beside him, and reached out for the pipe.
“I’ll light up and smoke awhile, Little Bit. Then I’ll pass it to you.”
“Hit away, Marse Org. I ain’t really hankerin’ fer no pipe-smoke. I likes cigareets best. But I’ll go it a puff or two, ef you’ll puff fust.”
Org lighted the pipe and was charmed at the ease with which he could draw the smoke through the stem. The smoke was exceptionally sweet and cooling to the tongue, like the flavor of ether, although Org had never tasted that volatile fluid. He took four or five hearty puffs, and then felt that it was time to introduce his black friend to this charming and delightful accomplishment.
Little Bit had counted the number of times that Org had blown the smoke from his lips and he had too much regard for his “raisin’” to puff a single time more than his white companion. After four draws he handed back the pipe.
Org reached for it with a disinterested hand. He held the pipe listlessly and gazed out dreamily upon the level meadow with eyes which saw little and comprehended less and were not interested in that. Then the pipe dropped from his hands, and Org opened his eyes wide, as he suddenly beheld the entire pasture with all its grazing cattle, the fence with the trees at the far end—everything, in fact, rise up in the air and dance high above his head!
Org leaned back so far to behold the last of this phenomenon that he fell off the log and lay prone upon the ground.
“Whut ails you, Marse Org?” Little Bit asked solicitously. “Is de worl’ done turned down-side up fer you, too?”
Little Bit arose with the intention of helping his white companion, the entire earth tipped and rolled over on him and pushed him over the log, where he lay holding to the ground to keep from being pitched off.
One hour later the two boys crawled up on the log and sat down, trembling, weak, beyond any weakness they had ever experienced.
“I guess we got poisoned with something, Little Bit,” Org remarked. “I feel pretty bad.”
“Dar ain’t been many cullud folks as sick as I wus an’ lived through it,” Little Bit replied with weak boastfulness. “Niggers is like a mule: dey don’t git sick but one time an’ atter dat, dey die. I wus wuss off in de last hour dan I ever is been. It muss hab been somepin I et.”
“I been heap sicker than you were,” Org declared. “You lived through it—you say so yourself. But me, I’m dying now!”
“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. Orgpromptly 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 saidapologetically. “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 newpipe 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!
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 toMustard, 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 theround 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 overshirtunbuttoned 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 onher 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, therecent 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.
XIITHE 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 togo 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 factthat 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?” heexclaimed 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.
When Org stopped in front of the court-house and placed the twelve dollars in the auctioneer’ssweating, 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.”
“I haven’t got four dollars,” Org replied, and then ran down the street, waving his arms at an automobile.
The machine stopped and Dr. Moseley leaned out and listened:
“Doctor, I know you ain’t a mule physician,but I just bought a big mule and he’s took sick and if he dies it’ll cost a lot of money to have him hauled off. I ain’t got the money to have him hauled away, and so you must come and keep him from dying.”
“Got any money to pay my doctor’s bill?” the physician asked.
“No, sir.”
“Got any money to pay for medicine to cure your mule?”
“No, sir.”
“Charity patient, by jacks!” the physician grinned.
“No, sir,” Org protested. “Me and my mule will pay. Whenever your automobile breaks down, I’ll let you ride my mule!”
No offer could be fairer, so Org swung up on the foot-board and rode with the obliging physician to the sick-bed of the mule. That able physician had once been all-boy himself, and he understood.
“Bless my soul, if it ain’t Jinx!” he laughed as he drew near the prostrate animal. After a moment’s examination he added: “That mule is hungry, boys. Feed him! Feed him quick! Feed him high! Repeat the dose three times a day before each meal!”
Laughing, he turned his automobile and went off.
Two hours passed while the boys were getting feed and watching Jinx eat. They did not mindwaiting. They sat on the curb in great contentment, discussing their purchase and planning for the future. Several men and women passed and stopped to chat with the boys, attracted by the novelty of a mule lying on the side of a road attended by two small boys. Without exception they recognized Jinx, for that mule was an established institution in Tickfall.
When Jinx got up the hill to the Gaitskill home he appeared very familiar with the place. In fact, he had been one of the Gaitskill mules several times in his varied career, and had found few other places where he had been as well treated.
“I guess we better let him stay in the front yard to-night, Little Bit,” Org said as he opened the gate and turned the animal in upon the Gaitskill lawn. “He’s too feeble to walk back as far as the stable, and I haven’t got any more time to fool with this mule. All our family are going to eat at Captain Kerley Kerlerac’s home to-night.”
The boys walked back together, separating at the court-house, and Little Bit went to the Hen-Scratch saloon.
He found Skeeter Butts in charge—told the story of Jinx, incidentally remarking that the whole Gaitskill family had gone to Kerlerac’s to eat dinner with his “boss.”
This last information pleased Skeeter Butts very much. He went out in the rear of the saloon to be by himself and think it over.
“Dat rabbit-foot is as good as got back already. I knows all about Marse Tom’s house. I done wucked in dat house so much dat I could walk eve’ywhar in it wid my eyes shut.”
About that time Hopey Prophet informed Dazzle Zenor of the absence of the Gaitskill family that evening. She knew the house, knew the people, and while she had not quite the liberty of an old family retainer, she fixed her plans to take this opportunity to raid the house.
“I’ll git dat foot certain,” she answered.
Skeeter waited impatiently until nine o’clock, then lighted a cigarette and sauntered out of the saloon. Under ordinary circumstances he would have entered the Gaitskill house from the rear. But, knowing that no one was at home, he came to the front porch and entered the front door. Once inside the house, he became extremely cautious. No use making a noise, even if there was no one to hear except himself.
It was very dark in the reception room, and while Skeeter was familiar with the house, and was sure that he was alone in it, he did not care to disarrange any furniture, and still less did he wish to fall over something and break it. He crept silently up the stairs and paused within a few feet of the room he intended to enter.
He heard a sound. Listening for a moment, he decided that someone was moving in the house, and that he had better not try to secure the rabbit-footthat night. His close-clipped hair stood up on his head like pig bristles as he began to retreat, and he lost no time in beating his way back to the hall below. He started to open the front door and escape that way, but on the second thought he decided it would be safer to go out through the kitchen.
As he passed into the back hall he heard some one coming down the steps of the back stairs. He crouched in a corner, waiting for the person to descend. Whoever it was, passed within a few feet of him, crossed the kitchen, and went out of the door. Skeeter noiselessly followed.
Once safely outside the house a senseless panic struck him, and he shot around the corner toward the front at full speed. On the walk in front of the house he collided with a terrible force with something, the impact jarring every bone in his body, and for a moment knocking him breathless, senseless. The second party in the collision, with a whistling expiration of breath sank limply against Skeeter Butts. He thrust out his arms and embraced a woman!
Skeeter was fond of the lady folks, and was usually chivalrous. But on this occasion he “dropped” the lady right there; cut her dead, so to speak. And started across the lawn at a speed never before attained by his pedal extremities.
Skeeter traveled crawfish fashion; he went forward, but he looked back. He turned to see where he was going, and there suddenly loomed beforehim a big, black object which looked to him as large as a house.
It was Jinx, lying on the ground.
Skeeter hit the front end of Jinx first and fell sprawlingly forward, and his arms and legs, outspread, were spraddled across Jinx’s bony back. The startled mule, aroused from his slumber, bellowed like a cow and began to get up, rising in bony sections, like a folding ladder.
For a moment Skeeter hung on to a few protruding bones, then he emitted a little whimpering sigh, slided off the bony sides of the ever-rising mountain, and lay flat upon the ground. The second collision had knocked him out.
Skeeter did not lose consciousness. He just lost breath. It was a long time before he rallied sufficiently to sit up, and when he did he heard a woman weeping softly.
“Who is dat onwindin’ dat bawl?” Skeeter inquired softly.
“Dis here is me,” the woman answered, which was enough for Skeeter, for he knew that voice.
“Whut wus you doin’ in dat house, Dazzle?” Skeeter asked, when he found her in the dark, sitting on the bottom step of the porch.
“I wus tryin’ to git dat rabbit-foot,” she said simply.
“How come you know about dat foot?”
“Hopey tole me. I wants de money Mustard is put up to git it back.”
“I wants dem dollars, too,” Skeeter laughed. “Less go in togedder an’ ’vide up de money even-Stephen.”
“I takes you on,” Dazzle said, finding comfort in her grief.
“Not no more to-night,” Skeeter said. “Dar’s a mule runnin’ loose in dis yard as big as a battleship. I butted him like a torpedo.”
“Whut happened?” Dazzle asked.
“I wus Jinxed,” Skeeter said simply. “Less go home.”
Jinx became the greatest plaything that Org and Little Bit possessed. He could not fatten, but under the care and treatment he received he acquired a little more interest in life, and showed quite a fondness for his youthful owner.
Gaitskill laughed, and decided that the mule would keep Org out of mischief, which would justify the cost of its keep. Tickfall smiled at the sight of a little boy sitting on a big saddle while a diminutive black boy sat behind him, proud of his position and waving a greeting to all his black friends as he passed. Org and Little Bit would not have swapped Jinx for an automobile.
“A automobile gits out of fix,” Little Bit said as they discussed this one day. “When she stopsnothin’ kin make her go. Ef somepin gits de matter wid it, nobody knows whut ails her.”
“But this mule is different,” Org said proudly. “I like something that wags its tail.”
“Dis hay-burner suits me,” Little Bit agreed.
They found to their delight that Jinx was thoroughly familiar with that great jungle called the Little Moccasin Swamp. The boys could ride out to that swamp upon Jinx and turn into any path which led into the jungle. The mule would carry them for miles along the winding animal trails, and then to their surprise they would find themselves in the highway again. They explored recesses in that swamp which they could never have reached without the mule, and they were never uneasy about losing their way.
They found great pools of water where large fish swam that were easily visible to the eye, and apparently unafraid. They found great sinks of vegetation where ugly snakes crawled, and they learned that Jinx could smell a snake as far as the eye could see, and that he had no desire to get near enough to be bitten. They saw immense turtles sunning themselves upon the logs and stumps. They found droves of wild pigs, extremely dangerous to man when he was standing upon his two feet, but harmless when a four-footed animal carried them upon his back.
Hence arose this matter of debate between them: Can a wild hog count? If he cannot, howdoes he know the difference between two legs and four legs?
They found an eagle’s nest, came too near, and were followed for miles by a screaming bird which swooped down upon them, fanned her immense wings within an inch of their hats, and snapped her vicious beak in their faces with a noise like the snip of immense shears. Once they saw a panther crouched upon a live-oak limb, his eyes glowing in the jungle shadows like living rubies; the animal screamed at them—the only thing which ever extracted a burst of speed from Jinx. They were followed for miles as they went out of that swamp by that screaming, snarling, hissing, spitting cat.
Once Little Bit turned around and made a noise like an exploding pop-bottle, a method which he had found efficacious in frightening domestic cats away. The vocal answer to Little Bit’s elocutionary effort was so terrifying that Jinx nearly jumped out of his skin.
Then one day, on the edge of a little clearing, they found a six-foot alligator asleep in the sun.
They dismounted and walked closer. The alligator slept on.
“How close can we get to this thing before he wakes up, Little Bit?” Org asked.
“He’s awake right now,” Little Bit told him. “He pretends like he’s so sleepy he’s mighty nigh dead, but he knows we is here all right. But hewon’t move till you gits right on him, close enough to tech him wid yo’ hand.”
“What’ll he do then?” Org wanted to know.
“He’ll slap his tail aroun’ and knock yo’ foots out from under you an’ bite yo’ leg plum’ off,” Little Bit informed him. “He’s layin’ dar now waitin’ fer a wild pig to come rootin’ aroun’ him like wild pigs does aroun’ logs. Den he’ll slap ’em wid his tail an’ bite ’em in two.”
The boys backed away, climbed upon the trunk of a fallen tree, and looked across the underbrush at the alligator. He was as still as an old rusty stove-pipe, which he somewhat resembled.
“Less take that rope off our saddle and rope him,” Org suggested. “They rope everything in California, cattle and everything.”
“Who’s gwine put dat rope aroun’ dat alligator?” Little Bit asked.
“You can do that,” Org replied as he untied the rope from the saddle.
“Mebbe I kin, but I ain’t gwine to,” Little Bit asserted, climbing up on the back of the mule. “Little Bit don’t choose but a little bit of alligator in his’n. Dis mule don’t hanker fer none.”
“All right, ’fraid-cat,” Org taunted. “You hold the mule, and I’ll throw the rope.”
Like most boys who had lived in the West, Org had often played with a rope, looping it and throwing it in imitation of the cowmen. He climbed upon a trunk of a fallen tree about thirty feet fromthe quiescent alligator, coiled the rope, and threw it with wonderful luck. The coil straightened, and the open loop fell right in front of the alligator.
In the less remote sections the alligator is fearful, for it has learned the menace of man. But this one had possibly never seen a human being before. When the rope fell it moved forward a few feet and became quiet again. Org gave the rope a quick jerk, and the loop caught under one of the alligator’s front feet and over his head. Org was standing by a limb upon the fallen tree, bracing himself to keep his balance. Quickly he twisted his end of the rope around the limb and tied it.
The creature was still unaware that it was captive. Org threw a few branches from the tree in its direction, and it crawled slowly forward a few feet. At last it came to the end of the rope.
A hoarse, coughlike bark rang through the forest, and instantly that six-foot alligator was a snarling fury as it entered into combat with its bonds. For ten minutes the two frightened boys beheld the most terrifying spectacle they had ever imagined. Org scuttled down from the treetrunk and took refuge with Little Bit upon the back of the mule, making ready for instant flight.