“If she took my pajamas with her, I’m fully resigned to the will of the Lord,” Gaitskill grinned. “They’re gone forever, too.”
“Oh, hush!” Mrs. Gaitskill begged, her fine face flushed with mortification. “Oh, those garments in my reception-room—I can’t bear to think of them! But we can’t let her wander off in that swamp and die.”
“I’ll send Hitch after her—if he’ll go,” Gaitskill said, and walked back toward the rear of the house, where he located Hitch, not by sight, but by sound:
“My wife’s strong-minded,
She’s double-j’inded,
She ain’t tame,
Scan’lize my name——”
The negro ceased singing, jerked off his big hat, and sprang to his feet.
“Hitch,” Gaitskill began, “Diada ran away last night. I want you to find her.”
“Yes, suh; Hopey narrate me about dat.”
“Go out into the swamp and find her!” Gaitskill commanded.
Hitch sat down and scratched his head; he plowed up the dirt with the toe of his ponderous boot; he slapped at the flies with his hat. He was trying to think up a plausible lie as an excuse for declining the proffered job.
“Naw, suh, Marse Tom,” he said slowly. “I’s powerful sorry, but I jes’ nachelly, can’t go—er—de lodge meets to-night——”