He worked for money and nobody ever owned him. He got religion and dollars and lucky dice And everybody he passed in the white folks’ street Said “Good mawnin’, Mr. Spade⁠— Mr. Spade, good mawnin’.” He chuckled aloud. “Good mawnin’, Mistuh Spade, Gwine to be free, Mistuh Spade⁠—yes, suh, Mistuh Spade!” For a lazy moment, he was already there⁠— Then he stiffened, nostrils flaring, at a slight sound. It couldn’t be dogs already. “Jesus,” he whispered, “Sweet, lovin’ Jesus, don’t let ’em git me again, Burn me up, but don’t let ’em git me again, Dey’s gwine to cut me apart.” The rabbit ran past. He stared at it for a moment with wild, round eyes, Started a yell of laughter⁠—and choked it off. “Dat ain’t no nachul rabbit dere, Spade, boy. Dat’s a sign. Yes, suh. You better start makin’ tracks. Take your foot in your hand, Mistuh Spade.”