“Nothin’ else, Marse Tom. Of co’se, I kinder nibbled aroun’ a little. I foun’ some raisins an’ a diffunt kind of cheese whut smelt like somepin dead to me, an’ some cakes wid white icin’ on de top, an’ a can of oystyers.” “Did you get enough to satisfy your appetite?” “Satisfy--oh, yes, suh, I felt powerful well fed.” The sheriff broke into a loud laugh. “No use to cackle, Mister Johnnie. I’s tellin’ de trufe. I shore had a plenty.” “What did you do next?” Gaitskill inquired. “I fotch out one of dem long Perique seegaws an’ lit up.” Both white men had begun to laugh. Mustard knew there was no harm coming to a negro from white men with the giggles. So he dismissed his fears and became expansive in his remarks: “Dem Perique seegaw stogies ain’t as good as dey looks, Marse Tom. No man ain’t got a sucker in his mouf strong enough to make ’em draw, an’ when dey does draw, no man ain’t got no cornstitution powerful enough to stan’ de smoke.” “What did you do next, Mustard?” “I laid down on dem oat-sacks an’ went to sleep.” Gaitskill had known Mustard so long that he could read the negro’s mind like a book. Although no question had been asked about the robbery, he was sure that Mustard had nothing to do with it. Then he began to explain to Mustard: “Somebody robbed my store last night, Mustard.” “Lawdymussy, Marse Tom! Bad luck is shore kotch you by de forelock. I’s powerful sorry to hear dem bad news.” “The man who blew open the safe was killed in a fight, but we can’t find the bag of money,” Gaitskill continued. “Dar now!” Mustard declared with unction. “Mo’ bad luck! It ’pears like it’s jes’ sorrer piled on top of sorrer in dis here grief-strucken-down worl’. I’s shore sorry, Marse Tom--” “The reason I wanted you to sleep in that store was to guard that safe.” “Hol’ on dar, Marse Tom,” Mustard said, coming quickly to his own defense. “You didn’t say me no words ’bout dat safe. All you said wus: ‘I want you to sleep in dis sto’ to-night.’ Ain’t dat so?” “Yes.” “Well, suh, I done it. I done it fur a fack. I done jes’ whut you tole me. I sleeped in de sto’.” “That’s a fact,” Flournoy chuckled, imitating the negro’s mode of speech: “Dat’s whut he done!” “I’se sorry, Marse Tom,” Mustard said, “but I ain’t to blame.” Sheriff Flournoy looked at his watch. “Look here, Tom,” he said. “If we are going to find the money, we’d better let this sorry son of sorrow skedaddle. He ain’t got it.” Mustard showed that he favored the sheriff’s suggestion by rising to his feet with alacrity. “Mister Sheriff Johnnie--” Pap Curtain, who had been a silent listener, began plaintively. “Shut up, Pap,” the sheriff interrupted. “You can come, too. I can’t keep a nigger in jail for falling down and bumping his head.” The four walked out of the jail door together. At the door Mustard asked: