Org thrust his hand into his coat and handed Virginia a green-plush box. The eyes of Skeeter Butts nearly popped out of his head. “For goodness’ sake!” Virginia exclaimed in an angry voice as she seized the box. “I was carrying it for luck, Gince,” Org said apologetically. “Little Bit said it was lucky, but—oh, I feel so sick!” Virginia opened the box and brought forth a rabbit-foot surmounted on one end with silver. Finding that it had not been injured, she spoke in a mollified tone: “After this, you understand that this plush box is mine, young man! Don’t you ever touch it again!” “I won’t. It ain’t no good.” “Skeeter,” she said. “Carry Org up-stairs to my room. I’ll lead the way.” Skeeter lifted the prostrate boy and carried him where his sister led. He lingered around the bed where he had placed Org until he saw Miss Virginia open the drawer of a dressing-table and place the green-plush box within it and shut the drawer. “You wants me to git de dorctor, Miss Virginny?” Skeeter asked. “No. That will be all for you, thank you.” When Skeeter stepped out upon the road beside the house, he noticed Colonel Gaitskill out in the horse-pasture, walking around in a circle defined by a clump of grass, his eyes glued upon the ground as if he was hunting for something. “Have you done loss somepin, Marse Tom?” Skeeter inquired as he walked to where he was. “Yes. I had a pipe that I have smoked for twenty years. I threw it out in these weeds this morning and bought a new pipe. But the new pipe is an abomination. I’m looking for the old one.” “I think young Marse Org is got dat ole one,” Skeeter laughed. “Miss Virginny jes’ now tuck it offen him an’ lef’ it on de front porch.” Gaitskill stooped and broke off the stem of a weed. He stripped the leaves from the straight stem, crushed them, and sniffed at the peculiar, sweetish, tobacco odor. Skeeter caught the scent, reeled backward, clutched at his throat, grabbed a convenient tree and began to heave! XI AT AUCTION When Skeeter Butts informed Mustard Prophet that his coveted rabbit-foot was in the Gaitskill home, Mustard nearly went into hysterics. “My Gawd!” he wailed. “No tellin’ whut dem white chillun will do to dat foot—an’ mebbe I won’t never see it agin.” “Dey ain’t gwine hurt it—Marse Tom’s house is safer dan a bank!” Skeeter protested. “How’ll I ever git dat foot back outen dat house?” Mustard howled. “Of co’se de house is safer dan a bank. Us cain’t rob a white folk’s house.” “How come you want it back ef it b’longs to Marse Tom?” Skeeter asked.