Then he lifted the other green-plush box, lifted a rabbit-foot out of it, and gazed with sacred awe upon this talisman.
“Dis here is Marse Tom’s left hind foot of a rabbit kilt in a graveyard in de dark of de moon,” he announced. “But take de secret myst’ry of de hist’ry of dis here foot: it wus in Marse Tom’s own house when all dat rousement touck place an’ busted up Miss Virginia’s party. An’ I had dis foot in my own coat pocket on my own pussonal self when Cap’n Kerley busted my head wid dat bat an’ I mighty nigh shot his snout off wid my pistol!”
Mustard Prophet reached up and tenderly caressed a bandage upon his wounded head.
“Naw, suh,” he sighed. “’Tain’t resomble to me dat dis foot is still got de authority. I’ll keep it, but I don’t never trust it no more. Mr. On-lucky Foot, I axes you good-by!”
He solemnly placed his thick lips upon the cushiony bottom of the rabbit’s foot, and kissed it farewell.
In Gaitskill’s stable in Tickfall, an ideal playhouse for two boys, Orren Randolph Gaitskill and Little Bit had formed a joint ownership over eleven interesting objects: One baseball bat which had “busted a nigger’s head,” and ten pistol bullets which had been extracted from the walls in the Gaitskill home. At frequent intervals an argument started between them as to which of the ten bullets had wounded Captain Kerley Kerlerac in the face.
“Ef I knowed which one it wus, I’d shore tote it roun’ wid me fer luck,” Little Bit said.
“This bat is a lucky bat. It blooded Mustard’s head. But we can’t carry it around for luck,” Org said.
“Naw, suh, but we can kiss it fer luck,” Little Bit proclaimed.
“That’s right,” Org said. “You kiss one end and I’ll kiss the other.”