But white folks never pay any attention to a negro’s name. They called him Little Bit.
In front of the Hen-Scratch saloon in the negro settlement known as Dirty-Six, Little Bit climbed into an empty farm-wagon to which two mules were harnessed.
“Dis here is Mustard Prophet’s team. He’s de overseer on Marse Tom’s Nigger-Heel plantation. I prefers to set down an’ travel. It ails my foots to walk. Mustard’ll let us ride.”
“I rode in a automobile in California,” Org remarked as he climbed into the wagon beside Little Bit.
“You’s fixin’ to ride in a aughter-be-a-mule now,” Little Bit snickered.
Mustard came out of the saloon and viewed the two boys with a great pretense of surprise.
“You two young gen’lemans gwine out wid me, too?” he asked.
“Yes, suh,” Little Bit told him.
“Gosh! I’ll shore hab a busy day wid de babies,” Mustard growled in a good-natured tone. “Dat ole Popsy Spout is in de secont imbecility of his secont childhood, an’ dis here white chile an’ dis cullud chile—lawdy!”
He climbed upon the wagon seat and clucked to his mules, driving slowly down the crooked, sandy road toward the Shin Bone eating-house.