“You’ll be back before night,” Gaitskill assured him.
“Yes, suh, but I gotter hustle aroun’ an’ git some money to pay my dues——”
“I’ll pay your dues.”
“Yes, suh, but—er—I gotter had my lodge clothes cleaned an’ pressed, an’——”
“Get some nigger to do that for you. I’ll pay him.”
“Yes, suh——”
Hitch stopped. His resources were exhausted. He looked at Gaitskill with a face as expressionless as a glass-eyed doll. “Marse Tom is sho’ a quick ketcher,” he thought. Then he spoke aloud:
“Marse Tom, I jes’ nachelly don’t wanter go atter dat coon! Why don’t you an’ me jes’ let her ramble? Us kind of folks hadn’t oughter pay dat nigger no pertick’ler mind—she ain’t——”
Gaitskill turned and walked away.
He was too much in sympathy with Hitch’s argument to discuss the matter. He salved his conscience with the reflection that he had told Hitch to go, although he was pretty sure that Hitch would slip off down-town, stay hid all day, and return at night to report that he had failed to find Diada.