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 come he 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 fer you?” 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, and everything 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. Dazzle was 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.”