He was wearing a woman’s silk shirt-waist; his coat had originally belonged to some woman’s coat-suit, adjusted to the present wearer by bobbing its tail. His trousers had once belonged to some man who was much larger in the waist and much longer in the leg; but the present owner of the nether garments had made certain clumsy adjustments and the trousers made a sort of fit. The stranger’s legs were covered with a woman’s purple-silk stockings, and on his flat feet were a pair of high-heeled pumps. “Hello!” Org said, his eyes glued to the ladylike clothes. “Mawnin’, Marse, howdy?” the little negro responded timidly. “My name ain’t Marse, it’s Org,” the white boy replied. “What’s your name? Who are you?” “Dey calls me Little Bit. I’s Cap’n Kerley’s white nigger, an’ I sorter janitors aroun’ de Hen-Scratch.” “White nigger?” Org remarked wonderingly, after a comprehensive survey of the negro boy. “The white of your eyes is white. That’s all the white I can see. Where you going?” “Out to de Cooley bayou on de Nigger-Heel plantation.” “Me, too,” Org remarked as he fell in step beside the negro boy. Which is the reason why Miss Gaitskill waited impatiently the rest of the day for her stamps. Without knowing it, Orren Randolph Gaitskill had found the greatest playmate in the world. Let every man born south of the Ohio River say “Amen!” Little Bit was an angel, too. His mother called him “her angel chile.” His mother had fifteen other angelic children in her cabin, Little Bit being the youngest and the last. So his mother named him Peter, after his father, and Postscript to indicate his location in the annals of the family; thus Peter Postscript Chew took his place in the world. But white folks never pay any attention to a negro’s name. They called him Little Bit. In front of the Hen-Scratch saloon in the negro settlement known as Dirty-Six, Little Bit climbed into an empty farm-wagon to which two mules were harnessed. “Dis here is Mustard Prophet’s team. He’s de overseer on Marse Tom’s Nigger-Heel plantation. I prefers to set down an’ travel. It ails my foots to walk. Mustard’ll let us ride.” “I rode in a automobile in California,” Org remarked as he climbed into the wagon beside Little Bit. “You’s fixin’ to ride in a aughter-be-a-mule now,” Little Bit snickered. Mustard came out of the saloon and viewed the two boys with a great pretense of surprise. “You two young gen’lemans gwine out wid me, too?” he asked. “Yes, suh,” Little Bit told him. “Gosh! I’ll shore hab a busy day wid de babies,” Mustard growled in a good-natured tone. “Dat ole Popsy Spout is in de secont imbecility of his secont childhood, an’ dis here white chile an’ dis cullud chile—lawdy!” He climbed upon the wagon seat and clucked to his mules, driving slowly down the crooked, sandy road toward the Shin Bone eating-house. “You boys watch dis team till I gits back,” he ordered. “Popsy’s gwine out wid us.” II