“A feller stole somepin from me, an’ I wants somebody to steal it back,” Mustard explained. “Bawl out wid it,” Skeeter snapped. “Don’t go beatin’ de bush aroun’ de debbil. Talk sense!” Mustard hesitated for a long time, opened his mouth once or twice as if about to speak, shook his head, and seemed to think better of it. “Well,” Skeeter snapped, “why don’t you tell it?” “I don’t know how to begin,” Mustard sighed. “Begin at de fust part an’ tell dat fust,” Skeeter ranted. “Is you been hittin’ Marse Tom’s bottle?” Under this sort of prodding, continued for some time longer, Skeeter finally got Mustard started, and got the story. It is not necessary to repeat it, although Mustard’s way of telling what happened and what he thought of Popsy would be interesting. “An’ now, Skeeter,” Mustard concluded, “de idear is dis: Popsy stole my rabbit-foot, an’ I want you to steal it back. Rob de ole man of my foot an’ fotch it back to me, an’ I’ll gib you one hundred dollars.” “Pay in eggsvance?” Skeeter asked eagerly. “No,” Mustard said. “Bestow a little money in eggsvance to keep my mind int’rusted.” “Suttinly. Ten dollars cash down—you got to pay it back ef you don’t do no good.” “I’ll git de foot all right,” Skeeter said confidently. “Don’t be too shore, Skeeter,” Mustard warned him. “You might git in jail, an’ ef you does, don’t ax me to he’p you.” “You means to say ef I bust into ole Popsy’s cabin an’ steal de foot, an’ he gits me arrested, you won’t esplain nothin’ to de cote-house?” “Nary a single esplain!” Mustard proclaimed solemnly. “Dat’s jes’ whut I means. I ain’t gwine git mixed up in dis no way an’ no how! Ef you gits in jail, I won’t open my mouth ef dey hangs you on a tree.” Skeeter pulled out of his pocket the ten-dollar bill which Mustard had just given him and spread it out upon his knee, smoothing it with his yellow fingers. “Gimme fo’ more ten-dollar bills to spread out on top of dis tenner,” Skeeter commanded. Mustard promptly handed over the money. “Dis here detecative stealin’ job is a risky bizzness,” Skeeter proclaimed. “I ain’t never got at nothin’ yit as dangersome.” “I knows it, Skeeter,” Mustard agreed gloomily. “Ef you ain’t keerful, you’ll git a bullet in you; an’ ef dat sad misforchine happens to you I won’t even come to yo’ fun’ral. I ain’t gwine mix wid dis at all.” Mustard arose, walked through the barroom, climbed upon his horse, and departed for the Nigger-Heel plantation. Skeeter sat for a long time, considering all that Mustard had told him, the money still spread out upon his knee. Then he arose and pocketed the money, walked out to the rear, and sat down in a chair under his favorite china-berry tree.