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 to Mustard, 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 the
round 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 overshirt unbuttoned 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 on her 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, the recent 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.