Diada took one step forward; Hitch winced as if anticipating a kick and stopped.
“Fer de Lawd’s sake, Marse Tom!” he howled. “I don’t want dis strange cullud pusson walking behine me! You lead her to de kitchen an’ lemme fetch up de rearwards!”
Gaitskill laughed, caught Diada by the sleeve, and led her to the kitchen.
Hopey, the cook, had just taken a pan of hot biscuit out of the oven when the door opened and Diada came in, filling the doorway like a picture in a frame and concealing Mr. Gaitskill, who walked behind her. Hopey’s biscuit-pan hit the floor with a bang, the biscuit rolled around the kitchen, and Hopey sank down in a heap on the nearest chair, covering her head with her flour-sprinkled apron.
“Oh, my Lawd,” she said, rocking herself from side to side and whimpering like a puppy. “De ole debbil is done come to git me at last!”
“Shut up, Hopey!” Gaitskill commanded. “Get up from there!”
“Oh, Marse Tom!” Hopey whooped. “Is de Ole Scratch gone?”
“Look up, Hopey, an’ trus’ de Lawd!” Hitch Diamond boomed, walking over and snatching the apron off of Hopey’s head. “Marse Tom is done hired a new fancy cook. He tole me she wus jes’ like you. Take a look, Hopey!”
Thus encouraged, Hopey raised her head. Then her wide, easy-smiling mouth widened into a laugh which shook the rafters of the house.
“Marse Tom,” she giggled, “you shore is one smart white man. You been blimblammin’ me fer twenty year because I feeds eve’y nigger whut pokes his head in my kitchen do’. You ain’t gotter feed dem mens no mo’, Marse Tom! Des new cook ain’t gwine be attracksome to nobody!”