In the meantime, Orren Randolph Gaitskill was out in the woods, getting
acquainted with Little Bit. He asked many questions, and in a brief time
he thought he knew all about his companion. Then he made a discovery, so
unexpected, so overwhelming, that it terrified him and sent him through
the woods and up to the house, squalling like a monkey.
“Dar’s a dandy swimmin’-hole over by dat cypress-tree, Marse Org,”
Little Bit remarked.
“I ain’t been swimming since I left the Pacific Ocean,” was Org’s reply
as he started in a run toward the designated spot.
As he ran, he began to shed his clothes. His hat dropped off first
because that was easiest to remove, then his tie, after that his shirt
was jerked off and cast aside. He could have been trailed from the
starting point to the bayou by the clothes he left behind him. On the
edge of the water he hopped out of his remaining garments and plunged
head-first into the stream.
Ten seconds later, he rose to the surface shaking the water out of his
eyes. It had taken Little Bit just that much longer to undress. At that
moment, Little Bit leaped into the water, arms and legs outspread, his
purpose being to make as much splash as possible.
He made a big splash, but he made a bigger sensation.
When Org saw that black object coming into the water after him, he got
out of there. With a terrified shriek he splashed to the bank, scrambled
up the muddy, slippery edge, and ran squalling across the woods toward
the plantation-house.
Little Bit was mystified and terrified. He followed the shrieking white
boy through the woods. Org ran into the open field, uttering a terrified
wail at each jump. His fright became contagious, and while Little Bit
did not have the least idea what it was all about, he added his wails to
Org’s lamentations, and the woods echoed with the sounds of woe.
They scrambled over the fence and into the yard and ran screaming up the
steps and into the house, just as Popsy had suggested that they hunt a
place to sit down.
Mustard ran into the hall and confronted two boys, naked as the day they
were born, both screaming at the top of their voices.
“Shut up, you idjit chillun!” Mustard howled. “Whut de debbil ails you?
Whar is yo’-all’s clothes at?”
The terrified white boy ran to Mustard, threw both arms around his
waist, and buried his face in Mustard’s coat-tail to shut out the awful
sight. But he did not stop his screaming.
“Hey, you brats!” Mustard whooped. “Shut up yo’ heads! Whut you howlin’
about? Hush!”
Both boys suddenly stopped screaming, and there was a moment of silence.
Mustard waited for them to get their breath and explain. All sorts of
things had happened in Mustard’s variegated career, but this was new, to
have two boys come prancing into his house without a stitch of clothes
on their bodies, both screaming like maniacs. Little Bit was the first
to catch his breath and speak.
“Whut ails you, Marse Org?” he asked in that soft, drawling, pathetic
tone, whose minor note is the heritage of generations of servile
ancestors. “Is a snake done bit you? Is you done fall straddle of a
allergater when you jumped in de water? How come you ack dis-a-way?”
These questions served as a sufficient explanation to Mustard for their
lack of clothes. Something had frightened them while they were swimming
in the bayou.
Org opened his eyes and peeped around Mustard’s hip at Little Bit. Then
he stepped aside and took a long look at the colored boy’s ebony body.
“Why, Little Bit,” Org exclaimed, “you are black all over your body!”
“Suttinly,” Little Bit agreed heartily. “I’s black as de bottom of a
deep hole in de night-time. I’s a real _cullud_ pusson, I is.”
“But—but—I thought you would be white under your clothes,” Org
exclaimed.
“Naw, suh, I ain’t never been no color but black, inside an’ out, on top
an’ down under,” Little Bit chuckled.
“But you said you were the cap’ns white nigger,” Org argued.
“Dat don’t mean white in color,” Little Bit explained. “De cap’n, he
jes’ calls me dat because I remembers my raisin’ an’ does my manners an’
acks white.”
“It ’pears to me like you boys is bofe fergot yo’ raisin’ an’ yo’
manners,” Mustard snorted. “Whut you mean by comin’ up to my house as
naked as a new-hatched jay-bird? ’Spose dey wus lady folks in dis
house—whut dey ain’t, bless Gawd! Wouldn’t you two pickaninnies cut a
caper runnin’ aroun’ here wid nothin’ on but yo’selfs an’ yo’ own
skins?”
“I was so scared I left my clothes on the creek,” Org explained
shamefacedly.
“I’ll go back wid you-alls. I don’t b’lieve you bofe got sense enough to
find yo’ gyarments,” Mustard grumbled. “Whar wus you-all swimmin’ at?”
As the three walked out, Popsy Spout stood for a moment, his vacant eyes
wandering over a room full of the most astounding accumulation of junk
any collector ever assembled. It all meant nothing to Popsy. He was
tired, awfully tired. The ride from town had wearied him, Mustard’s talk
had wearied him, the pickaninnies on the plantation seemed to make a lot
of noise. A long time ago he had asked Mustard to find him some place to
sit down. He decided he would prefer to lie down. He needed rest and
calm.
But Mustard was gone somewhere. He could hear his bawling voice getting
farther away from the house all the time. He might be gone for a long
time. He couldn’t sit down on that pile of junk. So Popsy walked feebly
to the door and stood looking into the hall.
As he put his hand up to the door-jamb to support himself, he discovered
that he was holding something. It was a green-plush box. He wondered
what the box was. It was probably something, he could not remember what.
He put the box in the pocket of his coat, found a rocking chair, sat
down and went to sleep.
V