Simple, confiding, good-natured, trustworthy, industrious, Gaitskill was very fond of him and would do anything in reason for him. He loved to point him out to his friends as the negro whose hard work had made the Nigger-Heel one of the show-places among the plantations of the state.
“We’ll talk about it to-morrow, Mustard,” Gaitskill proposed. “What are you going to do to-night?”
“Hopey’s lookin’ fer me up to yo’ house, Marse Tom,” Mustard declared, all his gloom gone. “I ain’t saw dat wife of mine sence all dis here war trouble come on me.”
“I want you to sleep in this store to-night,” Gaitskill said. “Pile up some of the empty oat-sacks in the rear of the store and make a bed.”
“Yes, suh. I’ll take keer of eve’ything. You knows me, Marse Tom. Gimme de key!”
Gaitskill passed over the door-key and the negro followed him through the store to his horse.
“Marse Tom,” he said, as Gaitskill was mounting his horse, “’bout dis here war in Yurope; I don’t see no signs of no war in Yurope. Now, I figgers it out dis way: de Yanks up Nawf is done bought up all de newspapers an’ dey’s skeerin’ us wid all dis war-talk so dey kin run de price of cotton down an’ all us pore niggers——”
“Aw, shut up!” Gaitskill said.
Mustard watched the horseman until the dust and dark swallowed him up far down the street. Then he turned back into the store with a grin:
“Dat white man ain’t onsottlin’ his mind ’bout no war. He owns a bank!”