Pap Curtain, in his turn, came to the aid of his friend. Picking up the paint-bucket with a circular motion of his long arm, he brought it down upon the head of Smart Durret. The bucket did not bounce, but Durret did. Deciding it was high time to go for the constable and the sheriff, Solly departed with expedition, deeply regretting that the State militia and the Federal army were not available in this hour of need. But Smart and Solly had loyal friends, and in a moment Mustard and Pap stood with their backs to the wall, each in possession of a heavy chair, holding it like a lion-tamer to keep the crowd from rushing them. [Illustration: Drawn by E. W. Kemble. Mustard proceeded to paint him red.] “Don’t scrouge, niggers!” Mustard bawled, as he held his chair poised for battle. “I done kilt so many coons I can’t count ’em. A feather fell from a buzzard’s wing an’ hit me on de head when I wus little, which am a sign dat my path is crossed wid dead men. Come right on an’ git your’n!” Then for a minute Mustard and Pap were the center of a whirling wheel of legs and arms and hands and heads; holding their chairs before them they charged through the ring like two angry bears. Men doubled up before them and went down and they took a side-swipe at the rest as they passed. They had reached the door in safety and were just about to pass through when the door was blocked by the portly form of the town constable. The combatants came to a full stop. The battle was ended. “Dat’s dem, Mister Rogers!” Solly Saddler squealed, as he pointed out Pap and Mustard. “Dey wus peckin’ on me an’ Smart Durret.” “You four bucks march along in front of me,” the officer announced briefly. “Go to jail.” At the jail door Mustard stopped to make a plea which was ably seconded by the others. “Please, boss, don’t put us togedder.” “Naw,” Solly exclaimed earnestly. “Let me an’ Smart go upstairs. Lock us away from dem terr’ble mens!” “Go upstairs, then,” Rogers said. A minute later, Pap and Mustard stood together behind the bars. “I done been in jail two times in two days,” Mustard mourned. “Sorrer’s done kotch me again.” “Me, too,” Pap lamented. “Bad luck’s got me by de lef’ hind leg wid a downhill pull!” “Same back at you, brudders!” a strange voice from the darkness in tragic tones. “I’s Trouble’s twin!” Having no charge against the four negroes except disorderly conduct, the constable had merely separated the combatants, allowing each pair the freedom of the entire floor. Mustard and Pap had believed that they were alone upon this lower floor until the strange voice spoke. Their hair stood up in superstitious fear, but the voice spoke again: “Howdy, brudders!” “Who dat talkin’ to hisse’f?” Mustard asked in frightened tones. “Whar is you at? Name yo’ name!” “Dey calls me Mobile,” the stranger confessed, coming forward. Then he proposed in a whisper: “Less go in one of dese little cages an’ set an’ talk.”