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.