“Shore wus. But I didn’t stay dar no time. I lef’ dat chain-gang in fo’ days. Dat’s how come I ain’t so glad to see dis town agin,” Pap said. Then after a moment’s thought, he suggested: “I tells you how to do, Mustard. You take yo’ cawnet-hawn an’ go out an’ pick de town.”
“Pick it?”
“Stop on all de cornders, play ’em a toon, den pass de hat,” Pap explained. “I’ll set down here an’ res’ my mind till you gits a little money, an’ in de nex’ town we goes to I’ll do de pickin’.”
So Mustard walked up the levee toward the town alone.
In the Red Elephant saloon, he said to the bartender:
“Mister, dese here white genmans need wakin’ up dis mawnin’. Lemme toot a toon or two?”
“Crack away, nigger.”
A few experimental strains issued from the cornet, followed by a high, piercing note; then Mustard started the music of a song everywhere dear to the heart of the Mississippi River negro:
Oh, honey, when you hear dat roan mule whicker;
When you see Mr. Sun turnin’ pale an’ gittin’ sicker
Den it’s time fer to handle dis job a little quicker
Ef you wanter git a smell of de boss-man’s jug of licker.
Git up an’ move aroun’! Set dem han’s to swingin’
Befo’ de boss-man comes aroun’ a dangin’ an’ a dingin’.
Git up an’ shout aloud! Let de white folks hear you singin’—
Hey! O—Hi—O! Hear dem voices ringin’!
All the morning in various sections of the town Pap Curtain, hiding under the levee, could hear the strains of Mustard’s cornet.