“I reckin you an’ me will hab to keep on trustin’ de Lawd, Marse Tom--yes, suh, as de old Injun useter say, trus’ de good Lawd an’ keep our cotton dry.” “What did you want to see me about?” Gaitskill asked. “Look at dese clothes, Marse Tom!” Mustard answered earnestly. “Look at dese here empty pockets! Ain’t dey no way to sell our cotton? Don’t I git no loose change fer my year’s hard wuck?” “Trust the good Lord!” Gaitskill grinned mockingly. “I’m is trus’ de good Lawd, Marse Tom, but dat ain’t git me nothin’. An’ I’m jes’ ’bleeged to tell you, Marse Tom, dat while I still trus’ de Lawd I’s lookin’ to _you_ fer some good clothes an’ some money.” “Put not your trust in princes,” Gaitskill said with solemn mockery. “Trust the Lord!” The negro fumbled at the keys of his cornet and sighed. Gaitskill watched him with twinkling eyes. He was the best plow hand, the best hoe hand, the best negro overseer in Louisiana, and for twenty years had been in charge of Gaitskill’s famous Nigger-Heel plantation. Simple, confiding, good-natured, trustworthy, industrious, Gaitskill was very fond of him and would do anything in reason for him. He loved to point him out to his friends as the negro whose hard work had made the Nigger-Heel one of the show-places among the plantations of the state. “We’ll talk about it to-morrow, Mustard,” Gaitskill proposed. “What are you going to do to-night?” “Hopey’s lookin’ fer me up to yo’ house, Marse Tom,” Mustard declared, all his gloom gone. “I ain’t saw dat wife of mine sence all dis here war trouble come on me.” “I want you to sleep in this store to-night,” Gaitskill said. “Pile up some of the empty oat-sacks in the rear of the store and make a bed.” “Yes, suh. I’ll take keer of eve’ything. You knows me, Marse Tom. Gimme de key!” Gaitskill passed over the door-key and the negro followed him through the store to his horse. “Marse Tom,” he said, as Gaitskill was mounting his horse, “’bout dis here war in Yurope; I don’t see no signs of no war in Yurope. Now, I figgers it out dis way: de Yanks up Nawf is done bought up all de newspapers an’ dey’s skeerin’ us wid all dis war-talk so dey kin run de price of cotton down an’ all us pore niggers----” “Aw, shut up!” Gaitskill said. Mustard watched the horseman until the dust and dark swallowed him up far down the street. Then he turned back into the store with a grin: “Dat white man ain’t onsottlin’ his mind ’bout no war. He owns a bank!” Mustard locked the front door, shutting himself in, then passed through the rear door into the lot where Pap Curtain was still waiting for him. “Pap,” Mustard began, “does you know how come a nigger wucks wid his hands, while the white man figgers and counts his money?” “Naw.”