Mustard Prophet, overseer of the Nigger-Heel plantation, sat on a box under a horse-shed in the rear of the Gaitskill store. The gathering dusk of the October evening lent beauty to his sordid surroundings, and Mustard sweetened the scene by music. His thick lips caressed the silver mouthpiece of a cornet, and his bellows-like lungs sent forth strains which made all Tickfall listen: “All de worl’ am sad an’ dreary, eb’rywhar I roam--” Wherever music is there the negroes are gathered together. In a moment Pap Curtain entered the lot. He was welcome because he carried a trombone. “How come you toot sich sad toons, Mustard?” Pap inquired as he took his own musical instrument out of a dirty green bag. “Ain’t us all sons of sorrer, Pap?” Mustard demanded in an argumentative tone. “Fo’ hundred bales of cotton raised on de Nigger-Heel plantation by me--an’ how much does me an’ Marse Tom git fer it? Jes’ perzackly nothin’ an’ not no more.” “De white folks is argufyin’ ’bout a buy-a-bale move,” Pap began. “Huh,” Mustard snorted. “Me an’ Marse Tom is argufyin’ ’bout a sell-a-bale move. I come to town to cornverse him ’bout dat.” Pap’s trombone was ready, and the conversation ended with the lively strains of a duet, the refrain of which was: “De nigger hoes de cotton an’ cawn, but de white man gits de money.” At the far end of the town a black saddle-horse emerged from the shadows of the swamp road and sailed up the sandy street with a motion as steady and rhythmical as the flight of a bird. Balanced on the pommel of his saddle, the rider held a heavy canvas bag filled with gold and silver coins, but so easy was the gait of that superb horse that not a coin rattled. From long habit the animal stopped in front of the Tickfall bank. The rider dismounted and walked to the door, feeling in his pocket for his keys. Failing to find his keys, he set the bag of money on the steps and began a search of his clothes, but without success. After a moment’s thought he remounted his horse and rode down the street to his store. The closing hour was six o’clock, and as it was nearly an hour later than that, he found the store also locked. But he stopped at the home of one of his clerks and secured a key. Entering the building, he opened a small iron safe in the office situated in the middle of the store, placed the bag of money within, and gave the combination-knob a few quick turns. Then hearing the lively duet in the rear of the store, he passed out into the lot. The duet came to a quick close. “Howdy, Marse Tom?” the negroes exclaimed in concert. Then Mustard Prophet added, “I been waitin’ fer you all dis Saddy atternoon.” “I knew it was you, Mustard,” Gaitskill grinned. “I’ve been hearing the sound of that old cornet twenty years, and I’d recognize it in China. What’s aching now?” “Marse Tom, ain’t dese here hard times? Ain’t money skeercer dan snow in a hot biscuit-pan?” “Just so,” Gaitskill said. “I’ve been out collecting to-day, and I know.”