“What happened, Isaiah?” Gaitskill laughed.
“Marse Tom,” Isaiah answered, “dar’s a plum’ wild woman out in de Little Moccasin Swamp. She throwed a gun at me de yuther day an’ run me an’ Little Bit clear outen de hog-camp. Us rambled back dis atternoon, an’ dat wild woman wus still dar—settin’ on de po’ch steps bangin’ on Little Bit’s banjo an’ singin’ jes’ like a pig squeals when he gits hung in de fence. When she seed me a comin’, she riz up—she looked powerful mad to me——”
Isaiah broke off and chuckled. Then he continued, in solemn and convincing tones:
“Marse Tom, I’ve saw a pig git mad an’ bust outen de pen an’ fight an’ bite jes’ like a dog an’ run eve’y pig and nigger off de plantation. An’ I’ve saw a cow git mad an’ kick over de bucket of milk an’ hook de feller whut milked her. An’ I’ve saw a man git mad an’ cut up scand’lous an’ git tuck up an’ crammed in jail. An’ I’ve saw a woman git mad—plenty womans—but I ain’t never stayed an’ saw whut dey done. Naw, suh, I skedaddles. Dat’s how come me an’ Little Bit is here now. Dat wild woman looked mad!”
There was a loud whoop up the street, and the sound of galloping hoofs smote again upon the ears of the little group in front of the court house. As they turned to look a whole cavalry troop of horses and mules swung into the main street and galloped at full speed toward the court house square.
It was a perfect Mardi Gras procession.
One aged negro passed on a blind mule, holding a baby in his lap, while two little pickaninnies rode behind him—four on one animal. An immensely fat woman rode by astraddle of a pacing donkey; she balanced a bundle as large as herself on the neck of her mount—food and household comforts of that sort, wrapped up in a red bed-quilt.
A negro boy came by holding a sack whose contents wriggled and whined, and the mustang he rode was throwing fits—the sack contained four hound pups. Another coon rode by holding in his free hand a bucket of molasses; and strapped to his back, like a knapsack was an immense bird-cage containing a parrot, who clung desperately to his giddy perch and squawked: “Look out! Look out! Look out!”
Thus, in grotesque procession, there passed before the astonished eyes of Colonel Tom Gaitskill every negro tenant and workman from the Nigger-heel plantation—four hundred men, women, and children, with his overseer, Mustard Prophet, in the lead!
“Thunderation!” Gaitskill bawled in a mighty voice. “What’s the matter with you damnation niggers?”