All up and down de whole creation Sadly I roam, Still longing for de old plantation And for de old folks at home! Up the street the white-haired man listened, then took off his hat and scratched his head in a quandary. “A mob set to music!” he smiled to himself. “This is something new to me. I wonder what that fool Mustard Prophet is doing here?” He walked quietly down the street and stopped in front of the jail, taking his position by the side of Sheriff Ulloa. With a graceful gesture he removed his hat and thus fronted the mob, serene, powerful, his fine face glowing like an alabaster vase with a lamp in it, the wind tossing his snow-white hair and beard--the most striking and impressive figure one beholds in a lifetime. He stood with bowed head listening to the music: Oh, darkies, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home! The music ended and the intense silence was broken by a voice in the mob: “_Aw, hell!_ I move we adjourn--_back’ards!_” With a concerted movement like a piece of oiled machinery, the mob turned and tramped up the street like a drove of mules, leaving four lengthy coils of rope, a broken hatchet, a hoe-handle, and a corncob pipe in the middle of the road. Turning with gracious Spanish courtesy, Sheriff Ulloa bowed low before the serene, powerful presence of Gaitskill, and murmured: “I thank you. You saved my life!” “Nothing of the sort!” Gaitskill snorted. “A mob can’t work to the tune of Suwanee River! Where’s that fool who’s blowing that horn?” “I’ll conduct you to him,” Ulloa answered. A minute later Gaitskill and Ulloa had secured another key to the jail, had entered, and stood in the presence of Mustard Prophet and Pap Curtain. The two negroes were too overcome to speak. Crazed by their horrible experiences, they sat wildly mumbling their prayers and uttering exclamations of thanksgiving. “These are the men I telephoned you about,” Ulloa said. “These are not the men we want,” Gaitskill replied in a disappointed tone. “One of these darkies is the overseer on my Nigger-Heel plantation.” “You asked me over the telephone if one of them was yellow?” Ulloa said, pointing to Pap Curtain. “Pap’s yellow, all right,” Gaitskill smiled. “But he’s not the man. He’s the well-digger of Tickfall. The coon we want is a nigger named Mobile Boone. He was seen early Sunday morning coming this way with my bag of money.” Sheriff Ulloa opened his mouth to speak; then he closed it without saying a word. “Marse Tom,” Mustard asked, “wus Mobile a yeller nigger wid a gold toof in his mouf an’ a scar on his jaw?” “Yes.” Mustard sprang to his feet with a loud laugh and gave Pap Curtain a mighty kick. “Git up, Pap,” he howled. “Less go git Marse Tom’s money fer him!” When a moment later the big automobile swung into the Massacre road leading to the old Kerlerac plantation house, Pap Curtain leaned over and whispered: