“Hitch is lying to you, Hopey,” Gaitskill laughed, glad to find that Hopey was not afraid of Diada. “Diada is here for just a short visit. I want you and Hitch to take care of her for the next two weeks. Feed her something right now!”
Gaitskill walked through the house, seized his hat and hurried down-town. He had enough of Diada and the negroes, and if anything happened he wanted to be absent.
In the kitchen, Hopey promptly assumed the rôle of hostess and boss.
“Pick up dem biscuits, Diader!” she commanded, pointing to the floor. “You made me drap ’em, now pick ’em up! You got to he’p me eat ’em, too!”
Diada, getting more information from Hopey’s gestures than from her speech, stooped down, picked up a hot biscuit, passed it under her nose, snorted with intense disgust, and hurled the biscuit from her with such force that it flattened against the wall and stuck there.
“Hey, dar! Whut you mean, nigger?” Hopey whooped. “Stop flinging dat biscuit aroun’ like it wus a gob of mud!”
Diada glanced around and pounced upon the only thing in the kitchen with which she was familiar—a carving knife with a long steel blade. She thrust it into the folds of her dress.
“Hol’ on, dar, sister!” Hopey admonished her. “Marse Tom don’t allow no stealin’ niggers aroun’ him. Fetch out dat butcher-knife! Excusin’ dat, I gotter slice some ham fer dinner.”
Understanding the gestures, Diada returned the knife and Hopey proceeded to slice a large ham. She laid four large cuts upon a plate, then turned her back for a moment. When she looked again Diada had devoured every slice and was hacking at the big ham with the carving knife!
“Whoop-ee!” Hopey howled, rushing at Diada. “Stop chawin’ on dat raw ham! Dat’ll gib you worms, nigger!”