But contrary to Gaitskill’s expectations, Hitch did some heavy thinking, then sought out the Rev. Vinegar Atts, pastor of the Shoofly church.
“Elder,” he began, “does you b’lieve in cornvertin’ de heathen?”
“Suttinly,” Atts replied, scenting a contribution for foreign missions.
“Well, suh,” Hitch declared, “now is de choosen time to get right nex’ to a shore-’nuff she-heathen. Marse Tom is got her out to his house on a little visit, an’ las’ night de Revun Sentelle an’ all de miss’nary ladies of Marse Tom’s chu’ch was makin’ ’miration over dat coon, an’ I figgers dat us Mef’dis niggers oughter jub’late too.”
“Shorely, shorely!” Vinegar Atts boomed. “Whar is dis here she-heathen at?”
“Her’s gone out fer a walk in de Little Moccasin Swamp,” Hitch informed him. “Ef us walks out to’des de swamp, ’pears to me we mought meet up wid her an’ git real good acquainted.”
“Dat’s good argufyin’,” Vinegar responded, reaching for his hat. “Whut do she look like?”
“Her looks like us niggers—only ’bout fawty’leben times more!” Hitch told him.
“Kin she talk?”
“Yes, suh, but a feller cain’t ketch on to nothin’ she specifies. It’s a kind of jibber-jabber monkeytalk dat lubricates a whole lot, but it don’t show whar at!” Hitch informed him, wondering at the same time how she really did talk—for Hitch had never heard a sound from her throat.