“It’s dis way, Skeeter,” Mustard said, trying to explain. “Eve’ything dat Marse Tom trusts to me, I keeps jes’ like it is when he gibs it to me. Ef he hands me a door-key, he needn’t ax me fer dat key fer ten year, but when he do, I’ll gib him dat key! Now, he gimme dat foot fifteen year ago, an’ he ain’t never mentioned dat foot since dat time nor seed it endurin’ all dem years; but ef he wuster come to de Nigger-Heel to-morrer an’ ax me, ‘Mustard, whar’s my rabbit-foot?’ my insides would bust open an’ be outsides onless I could say: ‘Here she am!’” “I sees,” Skeeter Butts said. “You’s got a rep wid Marse Tom.” “Dat’s right. I’s tryin’ not to ruin my rep.” “I wish I’d ’a’ knowed dat little white boy had dat foot in his pocket,” Skeeter sighed. “I’d ’a’ picked his pocket or heldt him up or somepin’ like dat.” “Too late fer dat now,” Mustard mourned. “Dat white boy found dat rabbit-foot down at ole Popsy’s cabin. Popsy lives back on de Gaitskill place in a cabin Marse Tom gib him, an’ dem pickaninnies wus playin’ aroun’ dar an’ swiped it. An’ ef Marse Tom ever ketches on dat I wus so keerless wid his royal foot dat I let a bat like ole Popsy git holt of it an’ run away wid it, an’ den let it git in de hands of dem chillun—Oh, Lawdy!” Tears ran down the cheeks of Mustard Prophet. The loss of the luck-charm was a real tragedy to Mustard, for his life had been one of absolute fidelity in little things. Every Southern man knows that the most unaccountable paradox in negro nature and character lies right here: you may choose the trickiest negro thief in Louisiana, give him the key to your money-chest, go to Europe and stay ten years, and when you return the negro will hand you the key, and the contents of the chest will be intact. Doubtless, he will open the chest a hundred times and investigate everything within it, but he will not betray his trust. Then, having surrendered the key and given an account of his stewardship, as he goes through the hall on the way out, he might pick up your gold-headed cane, stick it down his pants’ leg and hike! But Mustard had always kept his record straight in all respects. He was faithful in that which was much and in that which was least. And now that his rabbit-foot had got in Gaitskill’s home, he found it impossible to stay away from that house. He must get it back before Gaitskill discovered it there and asked questions. He dared not tell Hopey where it had been located, for Hopey had an openwork mind and a garrulous mouth, and she might let something drop that would reveal the secret. Mustard devoted his days to service on the Nigger-Heel plantation and came to town every night. He had to ride fourteen miles to make the round trip every twenty-four hours, but he felt easier if he could only be near the house where his rabbit-foot was concealed.