Diada wheeled and made a wide circle around that part of the lawn; then traveling in a steady trot, she made ever narrowing circles, eyes searching the ground. Suddenly she stopped, picked up a silver dime, placed it to her nose, gave a snort of disgust, and tossed the coin aside.
“That was your money,” Manse explained. “She’ll find mine in a minute.”
Even as he spoke, Diada pounced upon the silver piece and came trotting up to the porch and placed it in her master’s hand.
“Ah, I see!” Gaitskill exclaimed comprehendingly. “I have spent my life hunting for my collar-buttons, shirt-studs, hat, and socks. So have you. So has every man. And you’ve brought this cannibal belle to this country with you to help you find yours!”
“No, Tom,” Captain Manse laughed. “I bought Diada to save her life. My yacht stopped at one of those little islands in the Pacific Ocean which has about a thousand inhabitants—there’s no end of such islands out there. The cannibal chief came on board with Diada and offered to sell her to me.”
“He explained that he had captured her from a neighboring tribe and had intended to eat her. I bought her for about eleven dollars, paying for her in red calico, brass beads, and some tinware. The cannibal chief put one of the tin buckets on his head for a hat and rowed away as happy as an angel with a crown upon his forehead and a harp within his hand.”
Manse broke off and emitted a sharp whistle. Diada came to him on a trot.
Manse caught her left hand, pushed back the loose sleeve of her white dress, and bared her arm.
Gaitskill shuddered.
Just below her elbow was the slowly healing scar of a most horrible wound.