It was a hot day. The perspiration streamed down the face of the auctioneer and the old mule stood with bowed head, panting for breath, utterly oblivious to the crowd around him. The auctioneer draped one arm over Jinx’s protruding hip-bone, hanging there for support, while he chanted: “Nine, nine, nine—somebody make it nine!” “Why don’t you do what that gentleman asks you?” Org inquired of Little Bit. “He asks you to make it nine—why don’t you do it?” “Nine dollars!” Little Bit exclaimed in a frightened tone. “Ten!” Orren Randolph Gaitskill called. “Ten, I’m bid; ten, I’m bid—somebody’s either drunk or crazy, by jacks! Ten, I’m bid—who’ll play damphool and make it ’leven?” “’Leben!” Little Bit chimed. The auctioneer jerked off his big wool hat, slapped it against the bony side of the mule till it popped like a pistol and howled: “Wake up, Jinx! You old varmint—you are surrounded by friends! Wake up and show your manners!” The mule raised his head, shut one eye with an absurdly sleepy wink, dropped one big leathery ear forward, and let his head sag down until his nose almost touched his knee. “Twelve dollars!” This was more than the auctioneer could endure. He must ascertain the source of these rival bids. A shout of laughter rose from the crowd of men which shook the windows in the stores, as the auctioneer stooped and looked between the men and his red-rimmed eyes rested upon two boys, one white, one black! “Who bid that twelve dollars?” he snapped, glaring at the boys. “Me,” Org confessed. “You want to buy this old mule?” “Er—yes, sir.” “Have you got twelve dollars to pay for it?” “Yes, sir.” “Where’s that money—show it to me!” “It’s up in Gince’s room,” Org said without explaining who Gince was. “I’ll have to go after it.” “Go! Hurry!” the auctioneer snapped, wiping the perspiration from his face. “What sort of business man are you, leaving your pocketbook lying around? Here, you, Little Bit! Hold old Jinx till this boy comes back!” Mustard lost no time in getting to Gaitskill’s home, but the resolution which had given speed to his feet oozed away when he arrived, and left him a timorous negro, hesitant, ignorant of how to proceed further to secure the object he had come after. Mustard had no practical experience in this sort of work to guide him now. He realized dimly that it was not becoming that the trusted overseer of a great plantation should sneak into his employer’s home and take something from it, even though the thing he took really belonged to him. But he knew that this was the only way he could get the luck-charm without letting Marse Tom know. He reconnoitered and assured himself that no one was in the house. He walked through the kitchen, entered the back hall, and climbed cautiously up the back steps. Walking quietly, he went through the upper hall toward the front and stood at last looking into the dainty, exquisite room of the girl in the home.