“Mister Sheriff Johnnie—” Pap Curtain, who had been a silent listener, began plaintively.
“Shut up, Pap,” the sheriff interrupted. “You can come, too. I can’t keep a nigger in jail for falling down and bumping his head.”
The four walked out of the jail door together. At the door Mustard asked:
“Marse Tom, please, suh, dem white gemmans pestered me so stout las’ night dat I couldn’t git my hat an’ my cawnet-hawn befo’ dey tuck me to jail. Will you open de sto’ so I kin git ’em?”
Consenting to this request, Gaitskill opened the door, and said:
“Go in and get them, Mustard.”
A minute later, within the store, there was a loud whoop and a wailing cry:
“Oo-oo-ee! Oh, my blessid gracious goodness! He’p, Marse Tom, fer Gawd’s sake!”
The two white men ran into the store and found Prophet down upon his knees, hiding the horror before him by shielding his eyes with his hands, which was the still form of Slatey the Skull outstretched upon a cooling-board in the office.
Mustard had found his hat near his pallet of oat-sacks, but his beloved cornet was on top of a desk in the office.