After that he mounted the fastest horse on his plantation and rode to town, sweeping down upon his wife like a cyclone of wrath and fear and consternation.
“Dat ole bat stole dat rabbit-foot,” Mustard bellowed.
“I don’t b’lieve it,” Hopey replied, trying to soothe him. “Dat’s a good ole man.”
“He’s a good ole stealer,” Mustard howled. “He knows how to rob de hen-roost an’ hide de feathers. Lawd, when I think how heavy he sets in de amen cornder of de Shoofly meetin’-house, singin’ religion toons an’ foolin’ de people all de time—I tell you dat nigger ought to be churched!”
“But I don’t see what he wanted to take dat rabbit-foot fer,” Hopey declared. “He’s tole me plenty times dat he didn’t b’lieve in foots; he b’lieves in faith.”
“It’s wuth a thousan’ dollars—dat how come he took it!” Mustard bawled. “Mebbe it’s wuth a millyum; how does I know? Marse Tom, he’s got it all fixed up wid silver trimmin’s an’ in a plush box. Dat ain’t no cheap, common, nigger rabbit-foot. Dat’s a royal rabbit-foot, an’ it fotch Marse Tom all de luck he ever had. He tole me dat his own self.”
“Why don’t you go to Popsy an’ ax him fer it?”
“Dat ole lyin’ thief will say he ain’t got it, an’ ain’t never had it, an’ don’t know nothin’ about it,” Mustard wailed. “Atter dat, whar is I at?”
“Tell him dat it b’longs to Marse Tom, an’ you want it back,” Hopey urged.
“Yep. An’ dat ole gizzard will swell up an’ sw’ar he ain’t got nothin’ of Marse Tom’s an’ offer to go down to de bank an’ prove it befo’ Marse Tom’s own face. I don’t dast let Marse Tom know I done loss dat rabbit-foot. De kunnel would kill me dead!”