Captain Lemuel Manse broke into a loud laugh. He looked at Diada and laughed again; then he looked at Gaitskill’s horrified countenance and laughed louder.
“I’m afraid you have none of the spirit of the Christian missionary, Tom,” Manse finally managed to say.
“If the Christian missionaries in the Pacific Islands are engaged in saving the immortal souls of she-baboons like that,” Gaitskill snorted, pointing to Diada, “I’ll never give ’em another cent—not a dang cent!”
“Diada was made in the image of God, Tom,” Manse snickered.
“She may have been—once!” Gaitskill snapped. “But a hooliboogoo ran over her and mussed up that image considerably. When are you going home?”
“Why do you ask?” Captain Manse inquired.
“My eyes are getting sore looking at that heathen cannibal—that’s why I ask,” Gaitskill replied. “When are you going to take her away from here?”
“Tom,” Manse said in a voice of mock sadness and reproof, “I’m surprised at you. It’s been five years since I was a guest in your hospitable home, and in less than two hours after my arrival you inquire the time of my departure! Shame!”
“Keep your eye on that nigger!” Gaitskill said with a chuckle as he pointed to a giant black who came through a side gate into the lawn.
With the free stride of the athlete, Hitch Diamond, the immense, coal-black prize-fighter, came across the grass, his eyes following the winding galleries of the house, apparently in search of Mr. Gaitskill.