He leaned back, his face overshadowed with gloom and fear. He thrust his hand into his pockets, and his face suddenly cleared.
“I got her now, Hitch! Look at dis!”
Vinegar held up a small round mirror with an advertisement on the back. He looked at himself, then passed it to Hitch, who examined his own features carefully, and who then passed the mirror to Diada.
With wondering faces the two men watched the eternal savage feminine to see if it was like the other kind of eternal feminine. It was.
Diada placed the mirror about four inches from one big, protruding eye, squinted into the glass, and then slipped the little mirror into her hair, gave the hair a deft twist, and brought her hands down—empty.
“Dar now!” Vinegar mourned. “My little lookin’-glass is plum’ gone, jes’ as good as ef she’d swallered it!”
“Dat’s right!” Hitch agreed. “Diader shore made a short cut-off.”
He raised his eyes to the ceiling in an attitude of religious resignation, and saw Little Bit’s mandolin hanging on a nail above his head. He reached up and took it down.
Seating himself, he swept his fingers across the strings. Diada’s mouth opened in a wide grin.
“I’s got her. Vinegar,” Hitch boomed. “Now I’s gwine fetch her a few lively toons, an’ while I plays you open dat do’. Mebbe I kin sing dis heathen chile to sleep, but ef I cain’t, you keep yo’ eye on me an’ git ready to scoot!”