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 ............