Two hours later, Mustard Prophet stopped his wagon in the horse-lot of
the Nigger-Heel plantation.
“Dis is whar you mounts down, Popsy,” he said.
“Whut does I git off here fer?” Popsy asked querulously.
“Gawd knows,” Mustard grinned. “I done fotch you out to de plantation as
by per yo’ own request. Dis is it.”
He lifted the aged man down and walked with him to the house, making
slow progress as the old man supported himself with his staff and
insisted on stopping at frequent intervals to discuss some vagary of his
mind, or to dispute something that Mustard had said.
At last Mustard assisted him to a chair on the porch and handed him a
glass of water.
“Glad to hab you-alls out here wid me, Popsy,” he proclaimed. “Set down
an’ rest yo’ hat and foots.”
“I ain’t seed de Nigger-Heel plantation fer nigh onto fifty year,” Popsy
whined. “I used to wuck on dis plantation off an’ on when I wus a
growin’ saplin’.”
“Dis place is changed some plenty since you used to potter aroun’ it,”
Mustard said pridefully. “Marse Tom specify dat dis am one of de
show-farms of all Louzanny. I made it jes’ whut it is now.”
“Dis ole house is ’bout all I reckernizes real good,” Popsy replied. “It
ain’t changed much.”
“Naw, suh. I don’t let dis house git changed. Marse Tom lived here a
long time, an’ when he moved to town I’s kinder kep’ de house like it
wus when he lef’ it, only sorter made it like his’n in Tickfall. Marse
Tom is gwine lemme live here till I dies. He tole me dat hisse’f.”
“It shore is nice to hab a good home,” Popsy said, looking vacantly
toward the near-by woods, where he could hear the loud shouts of Little
Bit and Orren Randolph Gaitskill.
“Would you wish to see de insides of de house?” Mustard asked. “I got
eve’ything plain an’ simple, but it’s fine an’ dandy fer a nigger whose
wife ain’t never out here to keep house. Hopey cooks fer Marse Tom, an’
I got to take keer of things by myse’f.”
“It’s real nice not to hab no lady folks snoopin’ aroun’ de place,”
Popsy asserted. “Dey blim-blams you all de time about spittin’ on de
flo’ an’ habin’ muddy foots.”
They walked about the house inspecting it. Popsy followed Mustard about,
listening inattentively to Mustard’s talk, wondering what it was all
about. He came to one room which attracted his attention because it
looked as though it held the accumulated junk of years.
“Whut you keep all dis trash in dis room fer, Mustard?”
“Dis ain’t trash. Dese here is Marse Tom’s curiosities,” Mustard
explained. “Dis is like a show—all kinds of funny things in here.”
The old man stepped within the room, and Mustard began to act as
showman, displaying and expatiating upon all the interesting things of
the place.
The room bore a remote resemblance to a museum. When Gaitskill had first
moved on the plantation, nearly fifty years before, he had amused
himself by making a collection of the things he found upon the farm and
in the woods, which interested him or took his fancy. For instance, here
was a vine which was twisted so that it resembled a snake. That was all
there was to it. Because it looked like a snake, Gaitskill had picked it
up and brought it to the house and added it to his collection.
Stuff of this sort had accumulated in that room for years. Mustard had
no use for the room. Gaitskill had not needed it before him. When the
overseer moved in, he had zealously guarded Marse Tom’s curiosities. As
for Colonel Gaitskill, he did not even know the trash was in existence.
Mustard had added to the accumulation through the years. Now and then,
in his work in the fields or woods, he would find something that
reminded him of something that Marse Tom had “saved” in that room, so he
would bring it in and add that to the pile.
So now Mustard had something to talk to Popsy about, and he talked Popsy
to the verge of distraction, proclaiming all sorts of fanciful reasons
for the preservation of each curious object. The old man was bored as he
had never been bored in all his life. His feeble form began to droop
with weariness, his mind failed to grasp the words which Mustard
pronounced with such unction, but Mustard did not notice, and would not
have minded if he had observed Popsy’s inattention. He intoned his words
impressively and talked on and on.
At last Mustard opened a drawer and drew out a small, green-plush box.
He opened this box with impressive gestures, as if it was some sacred
object to be handled with extreme reverence. He held the opened box
under Popsy Spout’s nose.
“Dat’s de greatest treasure we’s got in dis house, Popsy,” he announced.
“Whut am dat?” Popsy asked, rallying his scattered wits.
“Dat’s de royal rabbit-foot whut fotch all de luck to de Nigger-Heel
plantation,” Mustard proclaimed. “Marse Tom gimme dat foot fifteen years
ago. He said dat all his luck come from dat foot. He tole me to keep it
an’ it would fotch good luck to me. It shore has done it.”
Popsy gazed down into the plush box. What he saw was a rabbit-foot with
a silver cap on one end, and in the center of the cap was a small ring
which might be used to hang the rabbit-foot on a watch-chain if one
cared to possess such a watch-charm.
A few years ago the rabbit-foot novelty was for sale in any jewelry
store in the South, and cost about one dollar. Because of the negro
superstition regarding the luck of the rabbit’s foot, Gaitskill had
bought one for his negro overseer.
The white man in the South in his dealings with the negroes is never
skeptical of their favorite superstitions. In presenting the rabbit-foot
to Mustard, Gaitskill had drawn upon his imagination and told a
wonderful story of the efficacy of this particular luck-charm. He had
been lost in the swamp, so Gaitskill said, and this foot had shown him
the way out; he had fallen into the Gulf of Mexico, and this foot had
saved his life; he had been poor, and now he was rich; he had been sick,
and now he was well; he had been young, and now he was old—and all
because of the luck of that particular rabbit-foot. All of this
emphasized in Mustard’s mind the importance which Gaitskill attached to
the possession of the foot, and made him believe that the white man only
parted with it because he wanted his favorite negro overseer to share
some of the good fortune which had come to him.
The tale had so impressed Mustard that he regarded that plush box with
its sacred foot as being the most valuable thing upon the Nigger-Heel
plantation. He guarded it constantly, and would have protected it from
theft or injury with his life.
“Dat is puffeckly wonderful,” Mustard declared, gazing at the treasure
with reverent eyes.
“Yes, suh, dat’s whut,” Popsy agreed dreamily “Le’s hunt some place to
set down.”