With a loud whoop, Skeeter and Dazzle ran through the smoke to the fire; from the door which entered into the barroom, Figger Bush came in with a bucket of water, yelling like a wild man. It was all over in a minute. “Good-by, Skeeter!” Dazzle laughed. “Mebbe us’ll meet in jail.” “Dat fire is a bad sign for me, Dazzle,” Skeeter sighed. “Troubles is gittin’ ready to happen to me.” “Things will shore happen whar a white boy an’ a pickaninny monkeys aroun’,” Dazzle told him. X RABBIT TOBACCO When the inveterate smoker throws away a pipe, it may be safely presumed that the pipe has some potency. A briar-root sweetens with age, mellowing and ripening in its own nicotine, and then it becomes impossible. So it happened that Colonel Gaitskill was compelled to an act of abandonment. The pipe that had solaced him for years was hurled far over in a clump of weeds in the horse-pasture. One pair of sharp eyes saw the act of abandonment and watched to see where the pipe fell. One pair of nimble feet carried their owner to the spot where the forsaken thing had fallen. A pair of eager hands laid hold upon it, and Orren Randolph Gaitskill found himself in proud possession of a real pipe. If Orren’s Sunday-school teacher had arrived at that particular moment and had been disposed to instruct this youth upon the injurious effects of nicotine, he could have run a broom-straw down the stem of that pipe and brought it out all black and shiny with poison. Finding a cat who never had smoked, did not even “chaw,” he could have forced that straw between pussy’s teeth, drawing it lengthwise through the sides of her mouth, thus wiping off the nicotine upon her tongue. He could then have waited a few minutes and had a free show for himself and Orren Randolph Gaitskill: the exhibition of a suffering cat, dying miserably in a fit. But, no! Orren had not the remotest idea of permitting a cat, or even a Sunday-school teacher, to share the delights of that pipe with him. He intended to smoke it in exclusive partnership with his colored friend, Little Bit. Orren found Little Bit sitting on a curb-stone in front of the Hen-Scratch saloon, and exhibited the treasure. “Dat’s a purty good pipe, but whar’s yo’ terbacker?” Little Bit asked. “You ought to furnish that,” Org replied. “I’ve got the pipe and the matches.” “I ain’t got none.” “Don’t yo’ mammy smoke?” “Naw. She dips.” “Don’t your father smoke?” “Ain’t got no paw. He’s daid.” “Well, then: can’t you borrow a little tobacco from some of your friends?” “Ain’t got no frien’s, excusin’ you.” “What about Skeeter Butts?” “He ain’t no frien’ of our’n. He’s mad at us because we sot his saloom on fire wid dat hot whup-cracker.” “I never saw a colored person with as little as you have,” Orren said irascibly. “You haven’t got nothin’.” “Dat’s a fack. Dat’s de nachel way niggers is. But I knows whar dar is plenty rabbit terbacker.”