org and little bit loved to play in an old storehouse situated in the corner of the yard in the rear of gaitskill’s home. there was a reason. both loved sweets, and in that house was where colonel gaitskill stored his famous ribbon-cane sirup.
this sweet, so famous in the state, is not marketable. when once it is put in a barrel or other container, it cannot be moved or it will turn to sugar. even with the greatest care, it is pretty sure to turn sugary before it is all used up. the sugar forms first a hard crust around the inside of the barrel and around the spigot from which it is drawn. sometimes you can turn that spigot on full and the stream will be a tiny thread of liquid sweetness which flows with exasperating slowness. a moment later the sugary obstruction may break from around the spigot, and after that, the flood!
doubtless shakespeare had such a catastrophe in mind when he wrote of
the taste of sweetness, whereof a little
more than a little is by much too much.
half a dozen times a day org and little bit slipped into this storeroom, turned on the spigot of the sirup barrel, caught the tiny stream of sweetness in the palms of their hands, and lapped it out with their tongues.
they were at that enjoyable diversion now.
suddenly there was a loud whoop of fright from the direction of the orchard where mustard prophet had gone to gather some figs for lunch. the boys ran to the door and looked out. they saw mustard climb down from a rickety step-ladder, fold that ladder together and hurl it in the direction of some object. then he came out of that orchard, stepping high like a turkey wading through mud, looking constantly behind him, and making as many different noises with his mouth as a whole brass band.
hopey, thinking he had been bitten by a snake, met him half-way to the house.
“whut ails you, mustard?” she asked.
“my gawd, hopey!” he panted. “dar’s a alligator out in dat orchard fawty feet long! i seen it!”
the noise mustard made had brought all the members of the family out to see what the trouble was. when he told them of seeing the alligator, org said nothing, and the others of the household were skeptical and laughed at him.
“how do you know you saw an alligator?” colonel gaitskill asked.
“i throwed a step-ladder at it, marse tom,” mustard wailed. “it wus longer dan de ladder.”
“come back to the orchard and show me,” gaitskill ordered.
“naw, suh!” mustard whooped. “go look fer yo’se’f, boss. dis nigger is done seen aplenty!”
“whut wus he doin’ in dat orchard?” hopey howled.
“he wus aimin’ to climb dat step-ladder an’ bite my leg off when i seen him,” mustard shuddered. “i gib him de ladder an’ tole him he could take my place!”
“don’t make so much noise, mustard,” gaitskill commanded, as he turned away and entered the house. nobody credited mustard’s story, except org and little bit, and they slipped away as soon as they could to see if their alligator was still in captivity.
they found that he had escaped, and a broad trail led across the dust of the pig-lot toward the orchard. the alligator had crawled through a hole. the boys promptly decided not to enter the orchard for any purpose whatsoever. thinking further, they decided they had better absent themselves from home for the day, for that alligator might do all sorts of sensational stunts, and they had seen enough of his performances the day before.
besides, colonel gaitskill might want to know how the creature got on the premises, and org had found that the best way to avoid answering questions was to be where questions could not be addressed to him.
at that moment there came to the ears of the two boys a dull explosion. they turned their faces in the direction of the sound and left home.
it is a pity that they did not first return to the storehouse and turn off the spigot of the molasses barrel. but they did not. that sirup ran two days and one night!
one of the annoyances of agriculture in louisiana is stumps. whenever a farmer undertakes to blast the stumps out of the ground with dynamite or powder, he is sure to have a crowd of small boys to watch him. org had been on the trail of the dynamiters for a number of days. whenever they heard an explosion, they knew that some farmer was having a celebration of fireworks and profanity, and they hurried to the spot, guided by the explosive noises.
by being around, they had surreptitiously acquired a number of dynamite caps, also several yards of fuse in various lengths. the sound they had heard a few minutes before was over in the direction of the cooley bayou, and they went.
what they saw when they got there, put the fear of dynamite in their souls forever.
there was a man who lived on the cooley bayou who walked on a wooden peg. he had attempted to dynamite a fish-hole. he lighted the fuse of the dynamite stick and walked toward the pool to toss the stick into the water. his wooden peg found a soft place in the earth, and he sank into the mire up to his knees. he pitched forward on his face, the stick of dynamite fell from his hand and rolled just a few feet out of reach. the peg leg was twisted under the sod and marsh-grass in such a way that the unfortunate man could not tear himself loose and escape from the stick of dynamite.
the explosion tore a hole in the ground in which a large automobile might have been easily concealed, and friends of the cripple found scraps of him hanging in the trees a hundred yards away.
org and little bit arrived just in time to view the effects of the tragedy, and came away with a deep impression of the explosive power of dynamite.
“dat stuff ain’t nothin’ fer us to fool wid, marse org,” little bit said earnestly. “jes’ look whut dat little stick of dynamite done to dat big growed-up man. ef a wad of dynamite wus to bust close to us, de white folks would hab to put on deir readin’ specks to find de pieces, an’ dey’d tote us bofe back to tickfall on a shingle.”
“i know where plenty of blasting powder is,” org remarked. “uncle tom has a whole keg of powder in his barn.”
“dat’s de stuff fer us to monkey wid,” little bit agreed. “us don’t hab to play wid so much at one time dat we git blowed plum’ away.”
they found the keg of powder and carried it down to the little branch which ran around the edge of the town. they were very careful as they went around the stable, not to step on the alligator. as they carried their powder away, they looked back frequently to assure themselves that the alligator was not in pursuit. when at last they had reached the woods, they decided that it would be a good idea to make several loud explosions to scare the alligator and keep him from coming in that direction.
they spent several hours experimenting with the powder, enjoying themselves in a variety of dangerous ways without coming to any harm.
then little bit thought of a hollow log under the wooden bridge that crossed this little branch on the road to the nigger-heel plantation. the log was about four feet long, the hollow through the center being about four inches in diameter, and extending nearly the entire length. to the imagination of boys, this thing would be suggestive of a cannon. when little bit showed the log to orren gaitskill, that was the first thought in his mind.
“let’s put some gunpowder in this log and shoot her off,” he proposed. “it’s just like a cannon.”
“us ain’t got no fuse-hole,” little bit remarked.
“we can go up to uncle tom’s and borrow a auger and bore a fuse-hole,” org replied. “i know where an auger is.”
they concealed their keg of powder under some brush and spent an hour going after the tool, playing along the road both coming and going. then they took turns in working, as they bored the hole.
“less load her up now and shoot off, and that’ll make an end of a perfect day,” org remarked, quoting a part of a song he had heard his sister sing to captain kerlerac.
“dis ole cannon is gwine use up all our powder,” little bit declared, as he peeped up the hollow to where the light of the fuse-hole showed.
“we don’t care,” org laughed. “this powder don’t cost us nothing.”
they placed their fuse properly, then emptied the contents of the keg into the muzzle of the log cannon. they rammed the charge home with a number of old sacks which they had been thoughtful enough to pick up in the barn and bring with them when they went after the augur. then they added several hat-loads of leaves and grass which they mixed with mud from the branch. after that they charged the “cannon” to the very end with great quantities of sod torn up from the edge of the branch and rammed hard into the muzzle with the blunt end of a big stick.
“now she’s ready to shoot. who’s going to light the fuse?” org asked.
“not me,” little bit said positively. “i’m jes’ a little fool nigger, an’ ain’t to be trusted wid no important jobs.”
“i’ll light the fuse,” org announced. “go up on the road and see if anybody is coming.”
little bit ran up on the little frail wooden bridge which was about twelve feet long, made a survey, and announced that all was clear. then he ran far over in the woods.
org lighted the fuse and followed his black companion at his best speed. when they reached what they thought was a safe distance, they paused and waited.
the idea of the boys was that the powder would simply shoot the mud out of the log, just as a bullet is propelled from the muzzle of a gun. but blasting powder is not a propulsive force; it is something that rends and tears, exerting as much pressure in one direction as in another.
therefore the boys were very much surprised, when they heard the explosion, to see the frail wooden bridge which spanned the narrow branch rise in the air, break into a number of pieces, and scatter all over the place!
the log cannon went to pieces also.
the boys went somewhere else. they did not run. they could easily have overtaken and passed anybody that was merely running. they just went away from there.
when completely overcome by exhaustion, they dropped down under a tree far away from the scene of their exploit. when, after a long time, they had somewhat recovered their composure and their breath, they began to plan for the future, when, as they thought, they would have to give an account of themselves.
“what does the law do to a feller that busts up a bridge, little bit?” org asked.
“ef he’s a nigger, like me, dey hangs him,” little bit shuddered.
“but if he’s white?” org inquired.
“dey shoots him,” little bit said.
“then we won’t confess,” org announced decisively.
they meditated awhile, and again org asked a question.
“did anybody see us with that kag of powder?”
“nope. us wus all alone.”
“then we needn’t say anything about that kag,” org declared. “uncle tom won’t miss it for some time.”
“don’t we say nothin’ about nothin’ bustin’?” little bit asked.
“no.”
“look at all de scratches dat de briars cut on my face when i wus runnin’ away,” little bit pointed. “how’s i gwine esplain dese here scratches? i got to say dat somepin’ busted on me, ain’t i?”
“no, you fool!” org exclaimed. “don’t you ever confess that anything busted on you or that you were ever round any busting thing. tell ’em that you cut your face—er——”
“you had better think up a powerful good lie,” little bit quavered. “my mammy, she kin ketch on powerful easy to tales.”
“tell her that you cut your face—er—shaving!” org replied, uttering the last word with triumphant emphasis.
“dat shows you don’t know nothin’ about niggers,” little bit scoffed. “most niggers ain’t got no hair on deir face an’ don’t never hab to shave. a nigger whut kin grow a moustacher an’ whiskers—he’s proud of hisse’f!”
“aw, shucks,” org said in disgust. “that ruins our perfectly good excuse.”
“my face don’t look like it’s been cut with a razor,” little bit said obstinately. “it looks like it’s been sawed acrost wid a lot of blackberry briars, dat’s whut.”
“i know it does, but you’ve got to tell some kind of tale to keep us from being found out,” org said impatiently.
“we don’t hab to tell nothin’,” little bit sighed. “dat bridge will say a plum’ plenty. it’ll preach a whole sermont.”
“don’t you say nothing about that bridge,” org howled. “keep your mouth shut.”
“’spose de white folks axes me?”
“tell ’em you don’t know anything.”
“i’ll tell ’em dat,” little bit said doubtfully. “but ain’t gwine bear down on dat very hard. ef a nigger tells too many lies, gawd’ll kill him!”
“if you don’t tell a few about that bridge the white folks will kill you before god can get around to you,” org declared.
then there popped into orren’s head, the final recourse of all the guilty, the establishment of a false alibi.
“come on,” he howled, springing to his feet. “we’ll go back to town and prove to everybody that we have not been in the woods at all to-day. we’ll let ’em see us.”
