“Marse Tom, please, suh, dem white gemmans pestered me so stout las’ night dat I couldn’t git my hat an’ my cawnet-hawn befo’ dey tuck me to jail. Will you open de sto’ so I kin git ’em?” Consenting to this request, Gaitskill opened the door, and said: “Go in and get them, Mustard.” A minute later, within the store, there was a loud whoop and a wailing cry: “Oo-oo-ee! Oh, my blessid gracious goodness! He’p, Marse Tom, fer Gawd’s sake!” The two white men ran into the store and found Prophet down upon his knees, hiding the horror before him by shielding his eyes with his hands, which was the still form of Slatey the Skull outstretched upon a cooling-board in the office. Mustard had found his hat near his pallet of oat-sacks, but his beloved cornet was on top of a desk in the office. “Get up, Mustard,” Gaitskill commanded, striking him with his foot. “This is the man who blew open the safe.” The big-hearted, giant-bodied sheriff gazed upon the criminal, then stepped over and felt the emaciated hands and arms. “He was as frail as a girl, Tom,” he said, with a note of pity in his voice. “But he fought like a snake. I simply had to crush him.” “Oh, lawdymussy, take me away from dis here terr’ble place!” Mustard bawled, kneeling before the broken office safe as before an altar. Handing the negro his cornet, Gaitskill made him rise, and followed him to the door, where Pap Curtain stood pop-eyed and trembling. “Marse Tom,” Mustard quavered, “I’s gwine leave dis land of sorrer. I ain’t never comin’ back no mo’ escusin’ you come atter me an’ fotch me back.” “Me, too!” Pap Curtain piped. The two white men watched the progress of the two negroes as they hastened down the street. “Mustard didn’t have a thing to do with it,” Flournoy said. Gaitskill nodded his assent. IV THE CONQUEST OF KERLERAC “Marse Tom say I warn’t to blame and Sheriff Flournoy turned me loose. But dem white gemmans whut kicked me an’ blimblammed me in de sto’house las’ night ain’t say _nothin’_. Mebbe dey’s gwine hang me yit. I dunno. I ain’t gwine be aroun’ handy till dey gits deir minds sottled dat they _ain’t_,” Mustard Prophet declared. “Ef dey finds out dat you and me wus bofe in dat house stuffin’ ourse’ves wid vittles, dey’ll take a notion dat dey _am_,” Pap Curtain asserted. “I’s done heerd de call of de migrashun nigger, Pap,” Mustard said mournfully. “Go wid me to my cabin an’ lemme git my trombone-hawn,” Pap replied. “Den I’ll mosey wid you.” The two spent the day under the willows on the banks of the Dorfoche Bayou, lamenting their luck. “Pap,” Mustard said, “de good Book say dat troubles is seasoning. Pussimmons ain’t good till dey’s fros’-bit. But it ’pears to me like I done had my sheer of sorrer.” “Me, too,” Pap agreed. “Now I argufies dat de only fitten occupation for a sorrowful man is fishin’. Less go ketch some grasshoppers and see kin we land a few trouts.”