He leaned over the porch railing; looked back toward the rear of the house; cupped his hands around his mouth like a trumpet, and bellowed:
“Oh, Hitch! Come here! Hear me!”
“Yes, suh, white folks! Comin’! Comin’ wid a looseness; comin’ right now!”
Hitch came, but he chose a very unusual route—through the house. Arriving at the door which admitted him to the porch where Gaitskill sat, he stopped, peeped at Gaitskill, then peeped at Diada, and ducked back into the room.
“Come here, Hitch!” Gaitskill commanded.
“Excuse me, Marse Tom,” Hitch muttered. “I’s axin’ you whut you wants?”
“Come out here! What in the name of mud is the matter with you?” Gaitskill bawled.
Hitch came out, his ponderous feet paddling along the floor like a lame duck, while his eyes never strayed from the broad, hunched back of Diada.
“’Scuse me, Marse Tom,” Hitch pleaded. “Dat new she-queen you’s hired to dec’rate dat lawn is done deprive me of my goat!”
“Don’t be a fool, Hitch!” Gaitskill snapped, smothering a desire to laugh. “That nigger woman is Captain Lemuel Manse’s house-servant. She’ll be here with us two weeks. I want you and Hopey to treat her kindly and make her feel at home.”