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