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 a free 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. 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!