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ODP.NET Developer's Guide

Oracle Database 10g Development with Visual

Studio 2005 and the Oracle Data Provider for .NET

A practical guide for developers working with the Oracle

Data Provider for .NET and the Oracle Developer Tools
for Visual Studio 2005

Jagadish Chatarji Pulakhandam

Sunitha Paruchuri

BIRMINGHAM - MUMBAI
ODP.NET Developer's Guide
Oracle Database 10g Development with Visual Studio 2005 and the
Oracle Data Provider for .NET

Copyright © 2007 Packt Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written
permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in
critical articles or reviews.

Every effort has been made in the preparation of this book to ensure the accuracy of
the information presented. However, the information contained in this book is sold
without warranty, either express or implied. Neither the authors, Packt Publishing,
nor its dealers or distributors will be held liable for any damages caused or alleged to
be caused directly or indirectly by this book.

Packt Publishing has endeavored to provide trademark information about all the
companies and products mentioned in this book by the appropriate use of capitals.
However, Packt Publishing cannot guarantee the accuracy of this information.

First published: June 2007

Production Reference: 1150607

Published by Packt Publishing Ltd.

32 Lincoln Road
Olton
Birmingham, B27 6PA, UK.

ISBN 978-1-847191-96-0

www.packtpub.com

Cover Image by www.visionwt.com

 Credits

Authors Project Manager

Jagadish Chatarji Pulakhandam Patricia Weir
Sunitha Paruchuri
Project Coordinator
Reviewer Abhijeet Deobhakta
Steven M. Swafford
Indexer
Development Editor Bhushan Pangaonkar
Douglas Paterson
Proofreader
Assistant Development Editor Chris Smith
Mithil Kulkarni
Production Coordinator
Technical Editor Manjiri Nadkarni
Divya Menon
Cover Designer
Editorial Manager Manjiri Nadkarni
Dipali Chittar
 About the Authors
Jagadish Chatarji Pulakhandam currently works as a .NET Architect and is
responsible for analyzing/designing enterprise-level .NET applications. He has
worked with Oracle since database version 7.1 and has been in the IT field for about
12 years. Apart from Oracle and .NET, he has a good knowledge of developing
corporate software and web applications, designing and implementing databases,
designing and implementing data warehouses, and working with enterprise
reporting software. During his free time, he contributes technical articles to OTN
(Oracle Technology Network) and to the world of developer communities.

I dedicate this book to my mother Dhana Laxmi. Without her patience,

support and encouragement, I would never be to this stage. A special
thanks to my uncle Ch. Jagadish Kumar, who is the basis for change
in my life. And several thanks to all of my relatives and friends who
encouraged and supported me at various milestones in my life.

A final thanks to every member of this book project from PACKT

Publishing and a special thanks to Douglas Paterson, who offered me
the first chance of writing this first book in my life.

Sunitha Paruchuri has been programming with Microsoft tools and Oracle
since 1997. She has developed numerous desktop, web, mobile, and distributed
applications using Microsoft .NET and has good experience with other Microsoft
products like Microsoft SQL Server, Microsoft Sharepoint Portal Server, etc.

I dedicate this book to my parents Harnadha babu and Aruna Kumari

and special thanks to my sister (Bhagya Laxmi), all of my relatives
and friends who framed, encouraged and supported me in developing
my career.
 About the Reviewer
Steven M. Swafford began developing software in 1995 while serving in the
United States Air Force (USAF). Upon leaving the USAF he continued developing
leading edge solutions in support of the America's war fighters as part of the
original USAF enterprise portal development team. His roots are now in central
Alabama where he works as a senior software engineer developing Java- and
.NET-based applications and web services. Steven credits his wife Su Ok and
daughter Sarah for supporting and inspiring his ongoing passion for software
development and the resultant challenges of life near the bleeding edge. Steven
was honored by the Microsoft Corporation in 2006 as a Microsoft ASP.NET Visual
Developer MVP. He would like to thank Tim Stewart and Edward Habal who
were his professional mentors and to this day remain close friends. Steven's personal
website is located at http://www.radicaldevelopment.net and his blog is located
at http://aspadvice.com/blogs/sswafford/.
 Table of Contents
Preface 1
Chapter 1: Introduction to ODP.NET 5
Introduction to ODP.NET 5
Why Use ODP.NET? 7
Oracle Database Access from .NET Applications 7
What Do We Require to Work with ODP.NET? 9
Introduction to Oracle Database Extensions for .NET 10
Oracle Database Extensions for .NET  10
How does .NET Work within Oracle Database? 10
Processing of .NET Stored Procedure with Oracle 11
Introduction to Oracle Developer Tools for Visual Studio 11
Summary 13
Chapter 2: Connecting to Oracle 15
Provider-Independent Model in ADO.NET 2.0 15
Listing All Installed .NET Data Providers 16
Enumerating all Oracle Data Sources Available 17
Connecting to Oracle Databases from .NET 19
Connecting Using .NET Data Provider Factory Classes 20
Connecting Using .NET Data Provider for OLEDB 22
Connecting Using .NET Data Provider for ODBC 23
Connecting using Microsoft's .NET Data Provider for Oracle  24
Connecting Using Oracle Data Provider for .NET (ODP.NET)  25
Connecting with Connection Pooling 27
Connecting with System-Level Privileges or DBA Privileges 28
Dynamic Connecting String Using OracleConnectionStringBuilder and app.config29
Embedding a "tnsnames.ora" Entry-like Connection String 31
Connecting to a Default Oracle Database 32
Connecting Using Windows Authentication (Single Sign‑On) 33
Summary 35
Table of Contents

Chapter 3: Retrieving Data from Oracle Using ODP.NET 37

Fundamental ODP.NET Classes to Retrieve Data  37
Retrieving Data Using OracleDataReader  39
Retrieving a Single Row of Information 39
Using "Using" for Simplicity 42
Retrieving Multiple Rows on to the Grid  43
Pulling Information Using Table Name 46
Retrieving Typed Data  47
Working with Data Tables and Data Sets 48
Retrieving Multiple Rows into a DataTable Using OracleDataAdapter 48
Filling a DataTable Using OracleDataReader 51
Retrieving a Single Row of Information Using OracleDataAdapter 52
Working with DataTableReader 54
Populating a Dataset with a Single Data Table 55
Populating a Dataset with Multiple Data Tables 56
Presenting Master-Detail Information Using a Dataset 58
More About the OracleCommand Object 61
Retrieving a Single Value from the Database 61
Handling Nulls when Executing with ExecuteScalar 62
Handling Nulls when Working with OracleDataReader 63
Working with Bind Variables together with OracleParameter 64
Working with OracleDataAdapter together with OracleCommand 66
Techniques to Improve Performance while Retrieving Data 67
Summary 69
Chapter 4: Manipulating Data in Oracle Using ODP.NET 71
Executing DML or DDL Statements Using OracleCommand  71
Using INSERT with OracleCommand 72
Using UPDATE with OracleCommand 73
Using DELETE with OracleCommand 75
Multiple Inserts Using Statement Caching 76
Multiple Inserts Using Array Binding 78
Creating an Oracle Table Dynamically Using ODP.NET 81
Updating Offline Data to the Database Using OracleDataAdapter  82
Working with OracleCommandBuilder and OracleDataAdapter  84
Working with Transactions Using ODP.NET  86
Handling Oracle Errors and Exceptions  88
Displaying a Single or First Error 88
Displaying Multiple Errors 89
Summary 92

[ ii ]
 Table of Contents

Chapter 5: Programming ODP.NET with PL/SQL 93

Working with Anonymous PL/SQL Blocks 93
Executing Anonymous PL/SQL Blocks 94
Passing Information to Anonymous PL/SQL Blocks 95
Retrieving Information from Anonymous Blocks 96
Working with PL/SQL Stored Procedures and Functions 98
Executing a PL/SQL Stored Procedure  98
Passing Parameter Values to a PL/SQL Stored Procedure  100
Using an Anonymous PL/SQL Block to Execute a PL/SQL Stored Procedure102
Retrieving Output Parameters from a PL/SQL Stored Procedure  103
Passing IN and Getting OUT Simultaneously  105
Handling User-Defined Application Errors 107
Executing a PL/SQL User-Defined Function  109
PL/SQL Packages, Tables, and REF CURSOR  111
Executing Routines in a PL/SQL Package 111
Executing a Procedure in a PL/SQL Package 112
Executing a User-Defined Function in a PL/SQL Package 114
Passing Arrays to and Receiving Arrays from Oracle Database 116
Sending an Array to Oracle Database 116
Receiving an Array from Oracle Database 119
Working with REF CURSOR Using ODP.NET 122
Pulling from REF CURSOR Using OracleDataReader 122
Filling a Dataset from REF CURSOR 125
Working with Multiple Active Result Sets (MARS) 126
Summary 130
Chapter 6: Dealing with Large Objects (LOBs) 131
Working with BFILEs 131
Setting Up the Environment to Work with BFILEs 132
Adding a New Row Containing BFILE 133
Updating an Existing BFILE Row 135
Retrieving BFILE Information from a Database 136
Retrieving Properties of a BFILE  138
Working with CLOBs 140
Inserting Huge Text Information into Oracle Database 140
Updating CLOB Information Using OracleClob 142
Retrieving CLOB Information from Oracle Database  143
Reading a Text File and Uploading as CLOB 144
Working with BLOBs 147
Setting Up the Environment to Work with BLOBs 148
Uploading Images to Oracle Database Using BLOB 150

[ iii ]
Table of Contents

Retrieving Images from Oracle Database Using BLOB 153

Uploading Documents to and Retrieving Documents from Oracle Database  154
Summary 158
Chapter 7: XML and XML DB Development with ODP.NET  159
A Fast Track on XML with Oracle 160
Generating XML from Existing Rows in Tables 163
Generate XML Using ADO.NET DataSet 163
Generate XML Using ExecuteXMLReader 164
Generate XML Using DBMS_XMLGEN 166
Converting Rows to HTML Using XML and XSLT 167
Manipulating Rows in a Table Using XML  171
Inserting Rows into Oracle Using XML 171
Updating Rows into Oracle Using XML 174
Working with Native XML in Oracle Database 175
Inserting XML Data into XMLType Using Traditional INSERT 175
Updating XML Data in XMLType Using Traditional UPDATE 177
Inserting XML Data Using OracleXmlType 178
Retrieving and Updating XML Data Using OracleXmlType 179
Extracting Individual Node Information of an XMLType Value 181
Summary 183
Chapter 8: Application Development Using ODP.NET 185
Notifying Applications of Database Changes 185
Catching Notifications 186
Catching Multiple Notifications 189
Identifying Rows Modified During Notifications 190
Developing Long-Running Applications  193
The Devil of Applications: "Not Responding"  194
Asynchronous Task with Multi-Threading 195
Developing Web Applications Using ASP.NET and ODP.NET 199
Web Development Using Smart Data Binding 199
Populating an ASP.NET DropDownList Control 199
Linking an ASP.NET GridView Control with a DropDownList Control 207
Add, Update, or Delete a Row Using GridView and FormView 212
Working with Web Controls Manually 218
Developing Web Reports Using ASP.NET 221
Creating a Strongly-Typed Dataset Using Designer 221
Designing and Binding a Report to the Dataset  224
Grouping and Displaying Sub-Totals 228
Embedding Charts (Graphs) in Reports 232

[ iv ]
 Table of Contents

Object-Oriented Development Using ASP.NET and ODP.NET 235

Developing a Simple Oracle Database Helper Class 236
Developing a Simple Business Logic Class 238
Working with ObjectDataSource in an ASP.NET 2.0 Web Form 241
Developing Web Services Using ODP.NET 247
Creating the .NET XML Web Service 247
Consuming the Web Service from ASP.NET 255
Developing Smart Device Applications 259
Introducing Microsoft Windows Mobile 259
Consuming a Web Service from Pocket PC 260
Summary 263
Chapter 9: Introduction to Oracle Developer Tools for Visual Studio 2005265
Features of Oracle Developer Tools 265
Connecting to Oracle from Visual Studio Using Oracle Explorer 266
Retrieving Oracle Information from Visual Studio Using ODT 270
Working with Oracle Database Objects from Visual Studio Using ODT 274
Dealing with Tables, Views, and Sequences Using ODT 274
Creating Stored Procedures Using ODT 277
Debugging PL/SQL Stored Procedures from Visual Studio 279
.NET CLR Stored Procedures in Oracle 289
Taking Advantage of Automatic .NET Code Generation 296
Summary 307
Index 309

[]
 Preface
Oracle's ODP.NET is a .NET data provider that can connect to and access Oracle
databases with tight integrity. It can be used from any .NET language, including
C# and VB.NET. This book will show you how ODP.NET is the best choice for
connecting .NET applications with Oracle database. We will be dealing with the
concepts of ODP.NET and its requirements, working with SQL, PL/SQL, and
XML DB using ODP.NET, looking at application development with ODP.NET:
Web Applications, Web Services, and Mobile Applications. We will also learn to
manipulate Oracle databases from within Visual Studio using Oracle Developer
Tools for Visual Studio.

What This Book Covers

Chapter 1 introduces the concept of Oracle Database Extensions for .NET and
provides information about Oracle Developer Tools for Visual Studio.

Chapter 2 introduces the Provider-Independent Model in ADO.NET 2.0, and shows

how to connect to Oracle databases from .NET, working with .NET data providers,
connection pooling, system privileged connection, and single sign-on etc.

Chapter 3 shows you several methods to retrieve data from an Oracle database. You
will work with the core ODP.NET classes like OracleCommand, OracleDataReader,
OracleDataAdapter, OracleParameter, and ADO.NET classes like DataSet,
DataTable, and DataRow etc.

Chapter 4 is about inserting, updating, and deleting data in the database. You
will also learn about statement caching, array binding, working with offline data,
implementing transactions, and handling errors and exceptions encountered during
database work.
Preface

Chapter 5 deals with working with PL/SQL blocks, PL/SQL stored procedures, and
functions. It also teaches you how to execute routines in PL/SQL packages, how to
pass arrays to and receive arrays from the Oracle database, and working with REF
CURSOR using ODP.NET.

Chapter 6 is completely dedicated to dealing with large objects in Oracle. This chapter
illustrates concepts, configurations, and programming for BFILE, BLOB, and CLOB
(or NCLOB) in conjunction with ODP.NET.

Chapter 7 gives details about Oracle XML DB, an add-on feature of Oracle database.
It provides information about generating XML from existing rows in tables,
manipulating rows in a table using XML, and working with native XML in the
Oracle database.

Chapter 8 deals with real-time application development scenarios like Oracle

database change notifications, asynchronous application development, web
application development using ASP.NET 2.0, web reporting (including grouping,
sub-totals, charts, etc.), Object-Oriented development with ODP.NET and ASP.NET,
XML web-services development using ODP.NET, and Smart Device Application
development (for clients like the Pocket PC).

Chapter 9 introduces you to Oracle Developer Tools for Visual Studio 2005. It
teaches you to connect to Oracle from the Visual Studio 2005 environment, retrieve
Oracle information from Visual Studio, and work with database objects from Visual
Studio. It also provides information about how to create and debug PL/SQL stored
procedures and .NET CLR stored procedures in Oracle.

Conventions
In this book, you will find a number of styles of text that distinguish between
different kinds of information. Here are some examples of these styles, and an
explanation of their meaning.

There are three styles for code. Code words in text are shown as follows: "�����������
Connecting
to a default Oracle database is purely dependent on the ORACLE_SID key available in
your registry.�"

A block of code will be set as follows:

Dim ProviderName As String = _
"Oracle.DataAccess.Client"
Dim fctry As DbProviderFactory = -
DbProviderFactories.GetFactory(ProviderName)

[]
Other documents randomly have
different content
 III

THE RABBIT-FOOT
Two hours later, Mustard Prophet stopped his wagon in the horse-
lot of the Nigger-Heel plantation.
“Dis is whar you mounts down, Popsy,” he said.
“Whut does I git off here fer?” Popsy asked querulously.
“Gawd knows,” Mustard grinned. “I done fotch you out to de
plantation as by per yo’ own request. Dis is it.”
He lifted the aged man down and walked with him to the house,
making slow progress as the old man supported himself with his
staff and insisted on stopping at frequent intervals to discuss some
vagary of his mind, or to dispute something that Mustard had said.
At last Mustard assisted him to a chair on the porch and handed
him a glass of water.
“Glad to hab you-alls out here wid me, Popsy,” he proclaimed. “Set
down an’ rest yo’ hat and foots.”
“I ain’t seed de Nigger-Heel plantation fer nigh onto fifty year,”
Popsy whined. “I used to wuck on dis plantation off an’ on when I
wus a growin’ saplin’.”
“Dis place is changed some plenty since you used to potter aroun’
it,” Mustard said pridefully. “Marse Tom specify dat dis am one of de
show-farms of all Louzanny. I made it jes’ whut it is now.”
“Dis ole house is ’bout all I reckernizes real good,” Popsy replied.
“It ain’t changed much.”
“Naw, suh. I don’t let dis house git changed. Marse Tom lived here
a long time, an’ when he moved to town I’s kinder kep’ de house like
it wus when he lef’ it, only sorter made it like his’n in Tickfall. Marse
Tom is gwine lemme live here till I dies. He tole me dat hisse’f.”
“It shore is nice to hab a good home,” Popsy said, looking vacantly
toward the near-by woods, where he could hear the loud shouts of
Little Bit and Orren Randolph Gaitskill.
“Would you wish to see de insides of de house?” Mustard asked. “I
got eve’ything plain an’ simple, but it’s fine an’ dandy fer a nigger
whose wife ain’t never out here to keep house. Hopey cooks fer
Marse Tom, an’ I got to take keer of things by myse’f.”
“It’s real nice not to hab no lady folks snoopin’ aroun’ de place,”
Popsy asserted. “Dey blim-blams you all de time about spittin’ on de
flo’ an’ habin’ muddy foots.”
They walked about the house inspecting it. Popsy followed
Mustard about, listening inattentively to Mustard’s talk, wondering
what it was all about. He came to one room which attracted his
attention because it looked as though it held the accumulated junk
of years.
“Whut you keep all dis trash in dis room fer, Mustard?”
“Dis ain’t trash. Dese here is Marse Tom’s curiosities,” Mustard
explained. “Dis is like a show—all kinds of funny things in here.”
The old man stepped within the room, and Mustard began to act
as showman, displaying and expatiating upon all the interesting
things of the place.
The room bore a remote resemblance to a museum. When
Gaitskill had first moved on the plantation, nearly fifty years before,
he had amused himself by making a collection of the things he found
upon the farm and in the woods, which interested him or took his
fancy. For instance, here was a vine which was twisted so that it
resembled a snake. That was all there was to it. Because it looked
like a snake, Gaitskill had picked it up and brought it to the house
and added it to his collection.
 Stuff of this sort had accumulated in that room for years. Mustard
had no use for the room. Gaitskill had not needed it before him.
When the overseer moved in, he had zealously guarded Marse Tom’s
curiosities. As for Colonel Gaitskill, he did not even know the trash
was in existence.
Mustard had added to the accumulation through the years. Now
and then, in his work in the fields or woods, he would find
something that reminded him of something that Marse Tom had
“saved” in that room, so he would bring it in and add that to the
pile.
So now Mustard had something to talk to Popsy about, and he
talked Popsy to the verge of distraction, proclaiming all sorts of
fanciful reasons for the preservation of each curious object. The old
man was bored as he had never been bored in all his life. His feeble
form began to droop with weariness, his mind failed to grasp the
words which Mustard pronounced with such unction, but Mustard did
not notice, and would not have minded if he had observed Popsy’s
inattention. He intoned his words impressively and talked on and on.
At last Mustard opened a drawer and drew out a small, green-
plush box. He opened this box with impressive gestures, as if it was
some sacred object to be handled with extreme reverence. He held
the opened box under Popsy Spout’s nose.
“Dat’s de greatest treasure we’s got in dis house, Popsy,” he
announced.
“Whut am dat?” Popsy asked, rallying his scattered wits.
“Dat’s de royal rabbit-foot whut fotch all de luck to de Nigger-Heel
plantation,” Mustard proclaimed. “Marse Tom gimme dat foot fifteen
years ago. He said dat all his luck come from dat foot. He tole me to
keep it an’ it would fotch good luck to me. It shore has done it.”
Popsy gazed down into the plush box. What he saw was a rabbit-
foot with a silver cap on one end, and in the center of the cap was a
small ring which might be used to hang the rabbit-foot on a watch-
chain if one cared to possess such a watch-charm.
 A few years ago the rabbit-foot novelty was for sale in any jewelry
store in the South, and cost about one dollar. Because of the negro
superstition regarding the luck of the rabbit’s foot, Gaitskill had
bought one for his negro overseer.
The white man in the South in his dealings with the negroes is
never skeptical of their favorite superstitions. In presenting the
rabbit-foot to Mustard, Gaitskill had drawn upon his imagination and
told a wonderful story of the efficacy of this particular luck-charm.
He had been lost in the swamp, so Gaitskill said, and this foot had
shown him the way out; he had fallen into the Gulf of Mexico, and
this foot had saved his life; he had been poor, and now he was rich;
he had been sick, and now he was well; he had been young, and
now he was old—and all because of the luck of that particular rabbit-
foot. All of this emphasized in Mustard’s mind the importance which
Gaitskill attached to the possession of the foot, and made him
believe that the white man only parted with it because he wanted
his favorite negro overseer to share some of the good fortune which
had come to him.
The tale had so impressed Mustard that he regarded that plush
box with its sacred foot as being the most valuable thing upon the
Nigger-Heel plantation. He guarded it constantly, and would have
protected it from theft or injury with his life.
“Dat is puffeckly wonderful,” Mustard declared, gazing at the
treasure with reverent eyes.
“Yes, suh, dat’s whut,” Popsy agreed dreamily “Le’s hunt some
place to set down.”
 IV

BLACK IS BLACK
In the meantime, Orren Randolph Gaitskill was out in the woods,
getting acquainted with Little Bit. He asked many questions, and in a
brief time he thought he knew all about his companion. Then he
made a discovery, so unexpected, so overwhelming, that it terrified
him and sent him through the woods and up to the house, squalling
like a monkey.
“Dar’s a dandy swimmin’-hole over by dat cypress-tree, Marse
Org,” Little Bit remarked.
“I ain’t been swimming since I left the Pacific Ocean,” was Org’s
reply as he started in a run toward the designated spot.
As he ran, he began to shed his clothes. His hat dropped off first
because that was easiest to remove, then his tie, after that his shirt
was jerked off and cast aside. He could have been trailed from the
starting point to the bayou by the clothes he left behind him. On the
edge of the water he hopped out of his remaining garments and
plunged head-first into the stream.
Ten seconds later, he rose to the surface shaking the water out of
his eyes. It had taken Little Bit just that much longer to undress. At
that moment, Little Bit leaped into the water, arms and legs
outspread, his purpose being to make as much splash as possible.
He made a big splash, but he made a bigger sensation.
When Org saw that black object coming into the water after him,
he got out of there. With a terrified shriek he splashed to the bank,
scrambled up the muddy, slippery edge, and ran squalling across the
woods toward the plantation-house.
 Little Bit was mystified and terrified. He followed the shrieking
white boy through the woods. Org ran into the open field, uttering a
terrified wail at each jump. His fright became contagious, and while
Little Bit did not have the least idea what it was all about, he added
his wails to Org’s lamentations, and the woods echoed with the
sounds of woe.
They scrambled over the fence and into the yard and ran
screaming up the steps and into the house, just as Popsy had
suggested that they hunt a place to sit down.
Mustard ran into the hall and confronted two boys, naked as the
day they were born, both screaming at the top of their voices.
“Shut up, you idjit chillun!” Mustard howled. “Whut de debbil ails
you? Whar is yo’-all’s clothes at?”
The terrified white boy ran to Mustard, threw both arms around
his waist, and buried his face in Mustard’s coat-tail to shut out the
awful sight. But he did not stop his screaming.
“Hey, you brats!” Mustard whooped. “Shut up yo’ heads! Whut you
howlin’ about? Hush!”
Both boys suddenly stopped screaming, and there was a moment
of silence. Mustard waited for them to get their breath and explain.
All sorts of things had happened in Mustard’s variegated career, but
this was new, to have two boys come prancing into his house
without a stitch of clothes on their bodies, both screaming like
maniacs. Little Bit was the first to catch his breath and speak.
“Whut ails you, Marse Org?” he asked in that soft, drawling,
pathetic tone, whose minor note is the heritage of generations of
servile ancestors. “Is a snake done bit you? Is you done fall straddle
of a allergater when you jumped in de water? How come you ack
dis-a-way?”
These questions served as a sufficient explanation to Mustard for
their lack of clothes. Something had frightened them while they
were swimming in the bayou.
 Org opened his eyes and peeped around Mustard’s hip at Little Bit.
Then he stepped aside and took a long look at the colored boy’s
ebony body.
“Why, Little Bit,” Org exclaimed, “you are black all over your
body!”
“Suttinly,” Little Bit agreed heartily. “I’s black as de bottom of a
deep hole in de night-time. I’s a real cullud pusson, I is.”
“But—but—I thought you would be white under your clothes,” Org
exclaimed.
“Naw, suh, I ain’t never been no color but black, inside an’ out, on
top an’ down under,” Little Bit chuckled.
“But you said you were the cap’ns white nigger,” Org argued.
“Dat don’t mean white in color,” Little Bit explained. “De cap’n, he
jes’ calls me dat because I remembers my raisin’ an’ does my
manners an’ acks white.”
“It ’pears to me like you boys is bofe fergot yo’ raisin’ an’ yo’
manners,” Mustard snorted. “Whut you mean by comin’ up to my
house as naked as a new-hatched jay-bird? ’Spose dey wus lady
folks in dis house—whut dey ain’t, bless Gawd! Wouldn’t you two
pickaninnies cut a caper runnin’ aroun’ here wid nothin’ on but
yo’selfs an’ yo’ own skins?”
“I was so scared I left my clothes on the creek,” Org explained
shamefacedly.
“I’ll go back wid you-alls. I don’t b’lieve you bofe got sense
enough to find yo’ gyarments,” Mustard grumbled. “Whar wus you-
all swimmin’ at?”
As the three walked out, Popsy Spout stood for a moment, his
vacant eyes wandering over a room full of the most astounding
accumulation of junk any collector ever assembled. It all meant
nothing to Popsy. He was tired, awfully tired. The ride from town
had wearied him, Mustard’s talk had wearied him, the pickaninnies
on the plantation seemed to make a lot of noise. A long time ago he
had asked Mustard to find him some place to sit down. He decided
he would prefer to lie down. He needed rest and calm.
But Mustard was gone somewhere. He could hear his bawling
voice getting farther away from the house all the time. He might be
gone for a long time. He couldn’t sit down on that pile of junk. So
Popsy walked feebly to the door and stood looking into the hall.
As he put his hand up to the door-jamb to support himself, he
discovered that he was holding something. It was a green-plush box.
He wondered what the box was. It was probably something, he
could not remember what.
He put the box in the pocket of his coat, found a rocking chair, sat
down and went to sleep.
 V

THE PLUSH BOX

Org walked back to the bayou under the escort of Mustard
Prophet. He seemed unable to take his eyes off of Little Bit’s shiny
black skin. He was slow to overcome his amazement at his discovery
that a negro was black all over.
When they were riding home in big Mustard’s farm-wagon, he
referred to it again.
“You’re a negro, ain’t you, Little Bit?” he asked, speaking in a
softly apologetic tone, as if fearing to cause offense.
“Suttin!” Little Bit laughed. “I’s a black Affikin nigger. Anybody dat
looks how dark complected I is kin see dat.”
“I never saw many colored persons in my life,” Org explained.
“You ain’t had no eyes ef you ain’t seed no niggers,” Little Bit
chuckled. “Niggers is eve’ywhar. Gawd made ’em in de night, made
’em in a hurry an’ fergot to make ’em white. Dar’s niggers in heaven,
an’ dars even plenty niggers in hell.”
At the Shin Bone eating-house, Mustard helped Popsy Spout down
from the wagon and the two boys jumped to the ground. Popsy
entered the restaurant, walked feebly over to a table and seated
himself with a thankful sigh. He took out his pipe and placed it upon
the table at his elbow, then spread a red bandana handkerchief over
his head to keep the flies from disturbing him. Then he sank into a
restful state of dreamy inanity, his mind just as near empty as it is
possible for anything to be, considering the fact that nature abhors a
vacuum.
 In one corner of the room, the proprietor, Shin Bone, was engaged
in some interesting experiments with loaded dice. He seemed never
weary of his task as he rolled the cubes across the table, retrieved
them again, and repeated. He tried to familiarize himself with their
vagaries, to study their oddities and eccentricities, and in his
imagination he planned many victories and great winnings through
the aid of these pet bones.
The process was absorbing to him. His eyes popped out, the
whites showing in a wide ring. His breathing was quick and husky as
he shook the dice, and he muttered prayers and imprecations and
incantations. Sometimes he threw the dice with one hand,
sometimes with the other; he used certain luck charms, changing
them from one pocket to the other, practising and experimenting
with every sort of “conjure,” for he expected those little white cubes
with the black spots to bring him the money with which to make a
loud noise in Tickfall colored society.
Popsy roused himself from his dreamy vacuity and felt in his
pocket for his tobacco-pouch. He would take a little smoke before
dinner. He found the tobacco-pouch, also something else.
He brought forth a green-plush box and looked at it curiously. He
opened it with hands which shook from senile palsy and examined
its contents. It was a rabbit-foot surmounted with a silver cap on
one end. He wondered where he had acquired the thing.
“Come here, Shinny!” he called. “Look whut I done found on
myse’f.”
Shin Bone crossed the room, gazed at the treasure for a moment,
and gave a surprised grunt.
“Whar did you git dis rabbit-foot?” he inquired suspiciously.
“I dunno, Shinny,” the old man replied in a complaining voice.
“Whut is it fur?”
“Lots of folks has rabbit-foots,” Shin said. “I don’t b’lieve in ’em. I
got four, an’ dey don’t fotch me no luck. Whar did you git dis’n?”
 “I dunno.”
“Whar you been at to-day?” Shin asked.
“Well, suh, early dis mawnin’ I went to de Shoofly chu’ch an’
conversed de Revun Vinegar Atts a little; atter dat, I went out to de
Nigger-Heel wid Mustard Prophet—ah—dat’s whar I got dis here
foot. Mustard gib it to me. He esplained a whole lot about it an’ tole
me dat Marse Tom gib it to him, an’ he passed it on.”
“Whut yo gwine do wid it?” Shin asked.
“’Tain’t no good to me,” Popsy whined, working at his tobacco-
pouch and shaking some tobacco in his hand. “De only luck-charm I
b’lieves in is de chu’ch. Ef de good Lawd is on yo’ side, who kin be
agin you?”
Shin Bone knew better than to get Popsy started in a discussion of
religion. His conversation on that theme was interminable. Besides,
the plush box lying on the table between them had awakened
several interesting trains of thought:
First, he knew Popsy had a trick of putting things into his pocket
and walking off with them, forgetting where he acquired them, and
even failing to remember what they were for. Second, he
remembered that Mustard Prophet had often attributed much of his
good fortune to the possession of a rabbit-foot. Thirdly, he knew that
Colonel Gaitskill also had a rabbit-foot, for he had often heard him
refer to it in his hearing and in the presence of the other negroes.
Now, did Popsy inadvertently take possession of Gaitskill’s rabbit-
foot? Or did he absent-mindedly walk off with Mustard’s foot? Or did
Mustard give his famous luck-charm away? Shin doubted this last
supposition. If a luck-charm is good, it is very, very good. Or did
Mustard steal Gaitskill’s rabbit-foot and Popsy take it from Mustard?
Popsy lighted his pipe and began to smoke. Shin Bone decided
that he could make nothing of the mystery. A rabbit-foot was no
good to him. He had tried them before. But loaded dice, now—he
pulled the “bones” from his pocket and renewed his former
operations.
In the kitchen a bell rang. A number of patrons who had been
lingering outside came through the door and seated themselves at
the table. Shin Bone arose to bring in the dinner. Popsy knocked the
ashes from his pipe and got ready to eat.
As for Org and Little Bit, they did not get back to the Gaitskill
home until the sun had sunk below the line of the tree-tops. And not
until Orren Randolph Gaitskill beheld his sister sitting upon the porch
did he think of the errand on which she had sent him ten hours
before.
His small hand investigated his trouser-pocket, to see if he was
still in possession of the fifty-cent piece. He might have lost it when
he tossed aside his garments on the banks of the Cooley bayou.
“Org!” Virginia called sharply. “Where are those stamps?”
Org’s nervous fingers caressed the half-dollar in his pocket. His
mind reached out like the tentacles of an octopus, grasping after an
excuse.
“Where are my stamps?” she repeated.
“Er—ah—I went down-town,” Org began. “I went down-town—and
—er—ah—Miss Paunee, that mustang woman in the post-office—she
told me—she said——”
“Well?” Virginia’s tone was icy.
“Miss Paunee—she told me—ah—she said she didn’t have no two-
cent stamps; she had sold out.”
If the glance of a sister’s eye could kill, most brothers would now
be dead. Org survived the look she gave him, and sheepishly offered
her the fifty-cent piece.
“You don’t need no stamps, Gince,” Org said soothingly. “Them
guys you left behind ain’t worth writing letters to.”
 “Please keep your opinions to yourself,” his sister advised. “Where
have you spent the day?”
“I have been to the Nigger-Heel plantation with Little Bit. Little Bit
is a colored person and a very good friend. A colored man named
Mustard took me out in a wagon and brought me back,” Org
informed her. Then eagerly: “Say, Gince, do you know that a negro is
black all over his body, even under his clothes?”
“Where did you meet these blacks?” Virginia asked, avoiding Org’s
question as to the color-line.
“I met Little Bit at the foot of the hill. He told me he was the
captain’s white negro. I met Mustard Prophet in front of the Hen-
Scratch saloon in Dirty-Six. We picked up Popsy Spout at Shin Bone’s
hot-cat stand in Hell’s Half-Acre!”
Under this appalling summary of information, Miss Virginia reeled
back in dismay.
“No doubt,” she said weakly.
“If you want to save stamps, Gince,” Org suggested eagerly, “you
better write to Little Bit’s captain and let me carry the notes for you.
I saw the captain when we were coming home. He’s got a’
automobile as big as a street-car. He was in the army and a German
shot him——”
A slight flush appeared on Miss Virginia’s cheek. It spread slowly,
like the unfurling of some flag—the star-spangled banner for
instance.
“I don’t care to hear the personal history of the acquaintances you
have made to-day,” Miss Virginia interrupted.
“His name is Captain Kerley Kerlerac, Gince,” Org persisted. “Little
Bit told me. Little Bit, my colored friend, is the captain’s pet coon.”
 VI

THE RAFT
In Tickfall, religion was reduced to the least common divisor. That
is to say, there was one church for the white people and one for the
black. The white children felt that they were imposed upon by the
older and more dominating members of their families in that they
were made to go to Sunday-school, whereas, the black children were
permitted by their parents to grow up in that ignorance which is
bliss.
Org had no particular love for religious instruction. All the time
that he was trying to learn a sufficient portion of that day’s lesson to
satisfy his teacher, he was thinking of a buzzard’s nest which Little
Bit had told him about, a buzzard’s nest which contained two baby
buzzards, both of them white as snow. If that buzzard’s nest had
been concealed in some Sunday-school book—but Org never found
anything interesting in a Sunday-school book. What little he knew of
that day’s portion of the Scripture had been imparted to him by the
laborious efforts of his sister, and he was now walking down the hill
toward the church, mumbling his newly acquired information to
himself.
“Whar you gwine, Marse Org?”
“Sunday-school. Come and go with me.”
“Ain’t fitten,” Little Bit giggled. “A little black coon like me ain’t got
no place in a white chu’ch. Excusin’ dat, I janitors in a saloon, an’
Sunday-schools ain’t made fer such.”
“I’ll tell you all I know about the lesson,” Org urged. “Listen:
Methusalem—oldest man ever was: nine hundred and sixty-nine
years old—was not, for God took him—gathered to his fathers——”
 “How ole you say he wus gwine on when he died?” Little Bit
asked.
“Nine hundred and sixty-nine years.”
“Whoop-ee! Whut did de ole gizzard die of when he died?”
“I dunno,” Org replied. “He died of smoking cigarettes, I reckon. If
you go with me, we’ll ask the teacher.”
“I mought stan’ outside behime de chu’ch while you axed,” Little
Bit said doubtfully. “Who am dis here teacher?”
“Captain Kerley Kerlerac.”
“I ain’t gwine to no Sonday-school to ax my boss nothin’,” Little Bit
said positively. “Dat white man don’t ’low no niggers to pesticate him
wid ’terrogations. I knows!”
Org was not willing to part with his companion. He could have a
great deal more fun with Little Bit than he could contemplating the
career of a man who had lived nearly a thousand years and had
been dead for several thousand more. Besides, he was a little
skeptical of the alleged age of that old party. So when Org came to a
corner where he should have turned to the right, he turned to the
left, and from that time on there was a vacant chair in the Sunday-
school.
The old cotton-shed on the edge of the Gaitskill sand pit was the
first thing to attract the attention of the pair. In that storehouse,
they found an old cotton-truck, and a door which had been torn off
the hinges and was lying on the floor near the office.
They found amusement for a while by pulling each other around
on the truck. Then they sat down in the door to cool off and gazed
out over an expanse of water which formed a shallow pond in the
sand pit.
“If we could get this old broken-down door over to that pond, we
could have a raft to ride on,” Org remarked.
 “’Tain’t no trouble,” Little Bit replied. “Jes’ load de door onto de
cotton-truck an’ push de truck down to de pond.”
“You are certainly intell’gent, Little Bit,” Org exclaimed admiringly
as he sprang to his feet.
“Pushin’ things an’ liftin’ things an’ loadin’ things—dat’s a cullud
pusson’s nachel-bawn job,” Little Bit chuckled. “’Tain’t no trouble fer
a nigger to think up dat.”
“Let’s get this door on the truck and move our raft,” Org urged.
It was not hard to do. The pine door was not very heavy, and from
the time they got it out of the building, the route was down hill to
the edge of the pond. They pushed the truck into the water, easily
floated the door off, and then tugged mightily to drag the truck back
to the empty storehouse again.
They found two long poles which would serve to steer with, and
raced back to the edge of the pond and climbed aboard their raft.
The door sustained them just as long as most of their weight was
on their poles, and they were trying to push off. At last they worked
their raft out to about four feet of water and felt free to lift their
steering-poles and ride.
Then that door slowly sank under their weight until the water was
up to their knees, to their waists, to their shoulders. It stopped in its
downward journey when it rested on the sandy bottom, and the two
lads stood on it, looking at each other with the utmost astonishment,
raising their chins to keep the water out of their mouths.
“You done got yo’ nice Sunday clothes all wet,” Little Bit sighed.
“Yours are wet, too,” Org retorted.
“Dis here is my eve’y-day suit. I ain’t got no all-Sonday gyarments.
I wears dese ladylike clothes all de time.”
“I’m sorry you spoilt your only suit,” Org sympathized.
“’Tain’t spiled—it’s jes’ wet,” Little Bit replied. “Whut is us gwine do
now?”
 “We’re both wet. We might as well have a good time,” Org
suggested philosophically.
“I likes good times an’ dis’n is started off real good,” Little Bit
laughed. “You git offen dis ole door an’ le’s see ef it will hold me up.”
 VII

LOST BOYS
About four o’clock that afternoon somebody in the Gaitskill home
asked where Orren Randolph Gaitskill was. He had not been seen
since he left the house that morning to attend the Sunday-school.
Miss Virginia Gaitskill called Captain Kerley Kerlerac on the
telephone and asked if Orren had been in his class that morning.
When a devilish boy happens to be the brother of an angelic girl,
even a disillusioned war-veteran finds that lad possessed of qualities
which he loves and admires for the boy’s sister’s sake.
Kerlerac informed her that he had missed Orren very much, that
he was the brightest boy in his class, that all the others had made
anxious inquiry about him, that he was about to call at the Gaitskill
home to inquire if Orren was sick.
The answer which he heard to this panegyric was a giggle.
“Hello! Hello! What’s that?” he exclaimed.
The telephone clicked in his ear, indicating that she had hung up
the receiver.
Kerley stood at the telephone scratching his head, a wry smile on
his lips.
“I believe that giggle meant that she called me a liar,” he
announced to his immortal soul. A reminiscent light beamed in his
eyes. “She hasn’t changed in the past fifteen years—little spitfire!”
For half an hour Miss Virginia found something else to think about
besides her wandering brother, but as the evening wore on, and he
did not appear, she began to get uneasy again.
 “That dang boy has played hookey and gone out in the woods
with that pickaninny,” Colonel Gaitskill announced.
“Oh, maybe he’s lost in the swamp!” Virginia gasped.
“No danger of that,” Gaitskill said easily. “These little niggers
around here can go across that swamp like a fox. They can’t get
lost.”
But as the shadows lengthened across the Gaitskill lawn the
women of the household were thrown into a panic. They insisted
that it was not a natural or ordinary thing for Orren to miss his
meals; that a hungry boy might be having a very good time at some
amusement, but he would always be willing to postpone his play to
eat, resuming his play after this meal.
“That’s so,” Gaitskill admitted. “When I was a boy nothing was
ever more attractive to me than the consumption of food, and I
enjoy being regular at my meals now. But, maybe he ate his lunch
somewhere else?”
By telephone they made inquiry of every place where they thought
Orren could have eaten. He had not been seen at any of those
places.
Gaitskill saw that he was going to have to get out and hunt that
boy. The prospect did not appeal to him. That boy was a nuisance. If
he was lost, it was good riddance. He wasn’t worth finding—let him
find himself. He went to the telephone and called up Captain Kerley
Kerlerac.
“Say, Kerl, where’s that damn little pet nigger of yours?”
“Haven’t seen him to-day, Colonel.”
“He’s run off somewhere with Orren, and Orren hasn’t come home
yet.”
“I’ll find him,” Kerley said eagerly.
“Oh, no! Don’t trouble yourself,” Gaitskill smiled. “I just wanted to
know about Little Bit.”
 Gaitskill sat down with a sly grin. He was getting old, he reflected,
and the strenuous life was no longer attractive. If a searching party
should have to be organized, he had now laid its foundation. It was
a certainty that Kerlerac would organize the party and lead the
search. Good old Kerl would see that Virginia’s brother was not lost.
It does not take a rumor long to spread over a little village. In a
brief time, it was known to the remotest parts of Tickfall that Little
Bit and Orren Gaitskill were lost.
Little Bit’s mother, in spite of the fact that she had fourteen others
just like him in her cabin, aroused all the negro section of the town
by her frantic wails. She announced in a voice like a calliope that she
knew that her angel child had fallen into a well, had been eaten by
an alligator, had been bitten by a snake, had been drowned in a
bayou, had been stolen and carried away by white folks, had been
lost in the swamp—and she howled like a banshee over each one of
these possibilities, and others of the same general nature as she
thought of them.
A great bellow of excitement went up from all the negroes, and a
band of them hurried to the home of Captain Kerlerac to inquire the
latest information about Little Bit. Their excitement was contagious,
and the captain caught it, the white citizens of the town were
inoculated, and in an incredibly short time the town was seething
with an intense desire to organize a search-party and explore the
woods for the lost boys.
“We’ll wait until night, men,” Kerlerac said. “If the boys don’t come
in by dark, we will go out on the Little Moccasin Road and build fires
on the highway for ten miles. Wherever they may be in the swamp,
they will see that trail of fire and come to it.”
“That’s the way to do it,” several approving voices spoke.
“Don’t bother Colonel Gaitskill with it,” Kerley suggested. “He’s
getting too old to be running around at night and exposing himself.
If the boys don’t come in by dark, I will ring the court-house bell.
Meet me there.”
 It had not been very long since Kerlerac had been a boy himself.
He knew every spot in that vicinity which was dear to boys, white
and black. He listed each one in his mind and started on a lone
search to each of these places.
His automobile carried him first to all the swimming-holes, then to
the old picnic-grounds, then to the old tabernacle, where the negro
camp-meetings were held, to the pool where the colored members
of the Shoofly church conducted their baptizings, to the old stables
and sheds around the fair-grounds. Finally, he left his machine
beside the road and walked across the field to the old cotton-shed
beside the sand pit.
The noise of shouting and laughter came to him before he arrived
upon the scene. It was no trouble to locate the two boys as they
splashed and paddled and fought with water and dived to the
bottom to rise with a handful of sand to throw at each other.
Time had ceased to move for those two youngsters. Sunrise and
sunset were just the same to them. A score of apple-cores strewn
along the sandy shore indicated that they had lunched well and were
not hungry.
“Hey, you!” Kerley called.
The two boys looked up with surprise.
“Come out of that water!” Kerley commanded. “Don’t you know it
is nearly night?”
The astonishment on their faces when informed of the passage of
time indicated that they had been completely engrossed with their
amusement.
They climbed out of the water near Kerlerac and gave that
gentleman a surprise.
“You’ve both got on your clothes!” he exclaimed. “Are you too lazy
to strip when you take a Sunday swim?”
 “Naw, suh. But our fust swim wus a mistake, Marse Cap’n,” Little
Bit chattered, chilled by the wind after his day of activity in the
water. “Us got on a raff an’ de raff wouldn’t hol’ us up.”
“Don’t report to me,” Kerley laughed. “March along home now!
Right face! Forward!”
A little later Kerlerac marched the two wet youngsters upon the
lawn and made them stand at attention in the presence of a dozen
hysterical women.
“Here are your mud-cats, Colonel,” he smiled. “I found them
paddling in the pond in the old sand pit.”
“I didn’t intend to get wet, Uncle Tom,” Org began, “but the raft
was not large enough——”
“That’s enough for you,” Gaitskill cut him off. “Go around to the
rear of the house.”
Miss Virginia Gaitskill stood upon the steps smiling.
“I think I knew you once, Miss Gaitskill,” Kerlerac said. “We were
both younger then.”
“You were seven and I was five,” Virginia smiled, as she extended
her hand.
“I remember,” Kerlerac answered. “You gave me a chocolate rat
with a rubber tail. I could hold the tail and bounce the rat, or I could
lay the rat down and watch it wiggle its tail very lifelike. I ate that
rat, rubber-tail and all.”
“You gave me a rabbit-foot in a green-plush box,” Virginia laughed.
“I did not eat the foot or the box. I have them both yet.”
“I have something that you did not give me,” Kerlerac said
earnestly. “I stole it from you. I carried it through three battles
across the sea. It is your picture as you were then.”
“Have I changed since then?” the girl asked, because she did not
know what else to say.
 “Yes. The photograph I have of you shows a little spitfire girl
astride of a wabble-wheeled velocipede.”
“Oh—” that young lady gasped.
 VIII

THE LOST FOOT

A moving-picture of the performances of Mustard Prophet when
he discovered the loss of his rabbit-foot would be a valuable
contribution to the silent drama. Alone in that big plantation-house,
with no one to talk to, he spluttered with language like an erupting
volcano, and cut as many capers as a cat having a fit.
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!”
“I never thought of dat,” Hopey sighed.
“You don’t think about nothin’,” Mustard wailed. “Here I is in de
wuss mess I’m ever got into, an’ you ain’t think about nothin’. Look
at dis here jam. If Marse Tom finds out I loss de rabbit-foot, he’ll kill
me; ef I ax dat ole Popsy-sneak to gib it back, mebbe he’ll blab dat
it’s lost, an’ Marse Tom will hear about it, an’ I’ll git kilt jes’ de same.
Anyhow, dat foot is plum’ gone an’——”
“Why don’t you git somebody to git it back fer you?” Hopey asked.
“Ef Popsy stole it, it ’pears to me like somebody oughter be able to
steal it back.”
“Suttinly, ef dey kin find it,” Mustard said, the light of new hope
shining in his eyes. “I’d gib somebody one hundred dollars to steal it
back fer me agin.”
“Dat’s plenty lib’ral,” Hopey said. “Mebbe ef you’ll hunt aroun’ you
kin find somebody.”
Mustard quieted down and gave himself to deep meditation, trying
to think of someone sufficiently bold to hold up Popsy and extract
the treasure from his pocket.
Hopey took this opportunity to leave the room. She had heard a
great deal from Mustard, and she did not care to be around when he
began to mourn and lament again. She was a fat woman, and
desired calm environments, and sought the ways of peace.
Moreover, she did not attribute the same value to the rabbit-foot that
Mustard did. It seemed to her that Gaitskill had given it to Mustard
to keep for his own, and that he cared nothing for it, had forgotten
all about it; he could not attach much importance to its possession
when he had never made inquiry about it in all the time that
Mustard had guarded it so zealously.
But Mustard was the best negro overseer in Louisiana for this
reason as much as any other: he took care of things, regarded his
employer’s property as more valuable even than his own, and
everything belonging to Marse Tom was to be kept in order for the
day when he should give an account of his stewardship.
After a while, Hopey thought of her friend, Dazzle Zenor. Dazzle
had good sense, possessed the wisdom which comes from many
varied experiences, and she would be able to help her now. She
heard certain noises in the next room, which indicated that Mustard
was getting ready to explode again, so she hastily left the house and
went to town.
Dazzle lived in Ginny Babe Chew’s boardinghouse in Dirty-Six. So
Hopey climbed pantingly to the second floor of this house and
knocked on her door.
“Who’s dat?”
“Hopey Prophet is done come on bizzness. Open dis door!”
“Whut you come to see me fur?” Dazzle asked promptly, after she
had admitted Hopey.
Dazzle was a woman who met all the exactions of Ethiopian
beauty. Her skin as black as jet, her teeth like milk, her eyes so dark
that they had a bluish tinge, slim and strong and graceful, an
actress, a dancer, a singer, she was the dusky belle of Tickfall. Every
negro man who had married anybody in the past four years had first
proposed to and been rejected by Dazzle.
Many of Dazzle’s enterprises were highly adventurous, and she
was always fearful and suspicious. So when Hopey hesitated to
begin, Dazzle’s tone became sharp with anxiety:
 “Whut you come to see me fur?” she repeated.
“I come to consult wid you about a little scrape our fambly is got
into, Dazzle,” Hopey began. “Us is liable to hab plenty trouble onless
somebody kin he’p us.”
“Whut’s done busted loose now?” Dazzle asked easily. Her mind
was now at rest, for nothing that could happen to Hopey’s family
could impinge on any of Dazzle’s previous escapades.
“Mustard is done loss his rabbit-foot!” Hopey exclaimed in tragic
tones.
Dazzle laughed.
“I’ll gib Mustard a hatful of dem things. I’m got about twenty.”
“But dis here is a royal rabbit-foot,” Hopey said with emphasis.
“I never heerd of dat kind, but ’tain’t no ’count whutever it is,”
Dazzle smiled. “I done tried all kinds, an’ I knows.”
“But dis rabbit-foot b’longed to Marse Tom Gaitskill,” Hopey
informed her, “an’ Mustard lost it, an’ Marse Tom will kill Mustard ef
he don’t git it back.”
“No doubts,” Dazzle chuckled. “White folks ain’t got no real good
sense, an’ nobody cain’t tell whut dey will do.”
Then Dazzle listened while Hopey told the tale of the
disappearance of the rabbit-foot. Dazzle was not much impressed
with this story of another’s misfortune, but at the last one sentence
stimulated her interest:
“Mustard says he will pay one hundred dollars to whoever gits his
foot back.”
That was speaking in language which Dazzle could understand.
She sprang to her feet.
“I’ll earn dat hundred dollars right now,” Dazzle proclaimed. “I’ll go
out to Popsy’s cabin an’ pull his nose till he gibs up dat foot.”
 “’Tain’t possible, Dazzle,” Hopey said. “We don’t want Marse Tom
to know dat de foot is lost. Ef you go to pullin’ noses an’ skinnin’
shins, Popsy will beller, an’ Marse Tom will hear about dat.”
“He’d shore howl,” Dazzle agreed, reluctantly abandoning that
plan. “Well, I’ll go out and make love to dat ole man, an’ sneak de
rabbit-foot outen his pocket.”
“Any way will do dat will git de foot back ’thout makin’ too much
of a rookus, Dazzle,” Hopey said. “We don’t want no row, no nigger
scrape, no loud noise, and no white folks mixin’ in.”
“White folks is shore good mixers,” Dazzle said, wincing at the
recollection of several plans of hers which had been rudely frustrated
by the interference of the whites. “I’ll see whut I kin do.”
 IX

SKEETER BUTTS
At the time that Hopey was in conversation with Dazzle Zenor,
Mustard was in deep thought. At last a name came into his darkened
and troubled mind which was like a blaze of light illuminating all his
perplexities: “Skeeter Butts!”
Ten minutes later he entered the Hen-Scratch saloon and was told
that the man he sought was in a little room in the rear.
“I’m shore glad to find you so easy, Skeeter,” Mustard said in a
relieved tone. “Ef you had been out of town I would hab fotch’ my
troubles to you jes’ the same, whar you wus.”
“Dis is whar you gits exputt advices on ev’ything,” Skeeter laughed
as he sat down and lighted a cigarette.
Why is it that people make confidants of barkeeps?
And whom will we tell our troubles to when the world is made safe
for prohibition?
Skeeter was a saddle-colored, dapper, petite negro, the dressiest
man of any color who ever lived in Tickfall. His hair was always
closely clipped, the part made in the middle of his head with a razor.
His collars were so high that they made him look like a jackass, with
his chin hanging over a whitewashed fence. His clothes were so loud
that they invariably proclaimed the man a block away.
He was the “pet nigger” of all the well-to-do white people in the
town, who invariably took him upon their hunting and fishing trips;
his dancing, singing, gift of mimicry, and certain histrionic gifts had
given him a place in many amateur theatrical exhibitions in Tickfall,
among both whites and blacks; and with all his monkey trickery he,
nevertheless, had the confidence of all the white people, and could
walk in and out of more houses without a question being asked as to
the reason for his presence there than any white or black in the little
village.
Among the negroes he was Sir Oracle. He was matrimonial
adjuster in courtship, marriage, and divorce; he was confidential
adviser at baptisms and funerals; his expert advice was sought in all
matters pertaining to lodge and church and social functions. In
short, he represented in Tickfall colored society what Colonel
Gaitskill did among the white people.
“Dis is whar you gits exputt advices on eve’ything,” Skeeter
laughed, for he knew his standing among his people.
“I don’t want advices. I wants a hold-up man,” Mustard said
gloomily.
“How come?”
“A feller stole somepin from me, an’ I wants somebody to steal it
back,” Mustard explained.
“Bawl out wid it,” Skeeter snapped. “Don’t go beatin’ de bush
aroun’ de debbil. Talk sense!”
Mustard hesitated for a long time, opened his mouth once or twice
as if about to speak, shook his head, and seemed to think better of
it.
“Well,” Skeeter snapped, “why don’t you tell it?”
“I don’t know how to begin,” Mustard sighed.
“Begin at de fust part an’ tell dat fust,” Skeeter ranted. “Is you
been hittin’ Marse Tom’s bottle?”
Under this sort of prodding, continued for some time longer,
Skeeter finally got Mustard started, and got the story. It is not
necessary to repeat it, although Mustard’s way of telling what
happened and what he thought of Popsy would be interesting.
“An’ now, Skeeter,” Mustard concluded, “de idear is dis: Popsy
stole my rabbit-foot, an’ I want you to steal it back. Rob de ole man
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