Chapter III: On the Rampage

Mrs. Mildred Gaitskill was intensely interested in social reforms, uplift movements, purity clubs, and foreign missions. Colonel Tom Gaitskill had often heard her remark that she had “felt a call” to be a missionary to the heathen when she was young; and Mr. Gaitskill, having a better recollection of the characteristics of the superb girl he had taken into his home thirty years before than she had of herself, was often tempted to tell her that she was nothing but a civilized heathen when he married her.

She had just finished writing the last of twenty invitations to the members of the Dunlap Missionary Society. She began a note addressed to Dr. Sentelle, the pastor of her church. After a few words of explanation she wrote:

I believe that Diada will be helpful in inspiring the missionary ladies of our church with a greater love for the dear heathen.

I have invited all the members of the society to my home to-morrow evening at eight o’clock to see Diada and have her reveal something of the customs of her native land. Will you not honor us with your presence--

The letter writing was interrupted by the entrance of Hopey and Diada--Hopey in the lead, puffing like a tugboat towing an ocean liner.

“Mis’ Mildred,” she began, “I’s jes’ ’bleeged to fotch dis here Whut-is-it up to yo’ room.”

“You refer to Diada?” Mrs. Gaitskill inquired sweetly, her love for the dear heathen enveloping her like a garment.

“Yes’m. Dis here Diader ain’t right in her haid. Down in de kitchen she hauled off and throwed one of my biscuit ag’in’ de wall an’ it _stuck_! She et a whole half a ham _raw_! She swiped de butcher knife right under my own _eyes_! She done ack powerful scandalous, an’ ef she potters aroun’ my kitchen I ain’t gwine _cook_!”

“She doesn’t know any better, Hopey,” Mrs. Gaitskill told her.

“Yes’m. An’ you cain’t tell her nothin’ because she’s plum’ deef ’n’ dum!”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Gaitskill smiled. “She can talk! Can’t you, Diada?”

Diada leaned over the writing desk, picked up a long, keen, pearl-handled paper knife and thrust it into the folds of her dress; but she did not utter a word.

“Gimme dat knife, Dummy!” Hopey yelled indignantly. “Whut you mean swipin’ ole mis’s pretties? You keep up dat gait an’ de white folks ’ll tie you to a tree an’ you won’t git nothin’ to eat fer a week, unless de woodpeckers feeds yer!”

Diada handed back the paper-cutter, but she kept her eyes upon it covetously.

“Whut’s de matter wid dis coon, Mis’ Mildred?” Hopey wanted to know.

“She’s a stranger from a strange land, Hopey,” Mrs. Gaitskill replied. “She doesn’t understand our ways.”

“She sho’ is strange,” Hopey affirmed with deep conviction. “Look at her eyes an’ years an’ toofs an’ nose! Look at her _stomick_--it don’t sag down correck an’ it don’t stick out at de right place----”

“That will do, Hopey!” Mrs. Gaitskill said sharply. “You must not comment on the personal appearance of your guest----”

“She sho’ is a guess--Mis’ Mildred. She’s got me guessin’!”

“Place a chair by the window, Hopey,” Mrs. Gaitskill said. “I’ll keep Diada with me.”

“_Which?_” Hopey howled. “You gwine let dat coon set in yo’ boodwar in one dese gold cheers?”

Hopey placed a rocking-chair by the window and motioned Diada to sit down.

“Set easy, Diader!” she commanded sharply. “Yo’ whole hide couldn’t hold as much money as dat cheer costed. An’ do yo’ manners, nigger! You is de onlies’ coon whutever set down in ole Mis’ Mildred’s settin’-room!”

She turned and walked down-stairs, informing Hitch Diamond in tragic tones that Mrs. Gaitskill had “done gone cripple under de hat.”

Peering through the branches of a large pecan-tree which stood beside the window, Diada could see the purple haze which hung above the Little Moccasin Swamp. Charmed by this vision she settled back in her chair and remained perfectly quiet.

Mrs. Gaitskill sealed all her envelopes; then finding that she lacked a sufficient number of stamps walked down-stairs to the library. The instant she left the room Diada stepped out on the window-sill, poised for a moment, and leaped with the agility of a monkey from the window to a heavy branch of the pecan-tree. Slipping quickly to the ground she started for the Little Moccasin Swamp.

Avoiding the streets of Tickfall by a detour, she struck into a long, swinging, tireless trot, as rapid as the gallop of a mustang, and in twenty minutes swung off into the bridle-path which led to the Gaitskill hog-camp. Her long skirts hindered her by catching upon the briers and underbrush. She stopped, rolled her skirts up above the knees, knotted them into place by a deft twist, then trotted on.

Standing under the shadow of a live-oak-tree on the Little Moccasin ridge, holding a double-barreled, muzzle-loading shotgun, was a diminutive darky named Little Bit. His eager eyes were searching the branches of a hickory tree for an elusive gray squirrel. Little Bit was afraid of snakes, varmints, his own shadow, and “ha’nts.”

“Dis shore is a lonesome place,” he chattered to himself. “I’s got snake-dust in my shoes, an’ a buckeye in my pocket, an’ a buzzard’s feather in my hat--but I ain’t feel like nothin’ cain’t happen----”

Twenty yards away Diada stood in the shadow of another tree watching him. She was very much interested in the little negro, who had his back to her. With absolutely noiseless tread she approached him--her intentions most friendly and peaceable. When she was ten feet away Little Bit turned around and saw her.

The features of Little Bit’s face first expanded, then contracted, then resolved into a heterogeneous mass expressive of more conflicting emotions than he had ever before experienced. The gun fell from his hands and dropped with the barrel resting across his toes. Even in his agony of fright he was conscious of Diada’s shortened skirt, and beheld her big, brown knees, knotted and gnarled like the trunk of a black gum-tree. With a trembling hand he reached upward for his hat--a sure sign he was getting ready to go away from there at his best speed.

Like a flash he wheeled and raced bareheaded down the ridge, slapping his hat against his thigh at every step like a jockey lashing his mount. In a moment he merged himself like a brown, fleeting shadow among the shadows of the overarching trees. Diada picked up the gun, holding it like a club, and striking her tireless trot, followed in his tracks.

Old Isaiah, the venerable negro superintendent of the Gaitskill hog-camp, sat upon the porch of the cabin sunning his rheumatic legs when Little Bit came racing across the clearing at breakneck speed.

“Save my life, Isaiah!” Little Bit shrieked. “She’s a comin’!”

“Sot down, Little Bit,” Isaiah remarked in a sleepy tone. “You gits at least one good skeer eve’y day. Now set yo’ triggers an’ take good aim, an’ git at de right eend of de gun befo’ you shoots her off! Who’s a comin’?”

“Gawd knows!” Little Bit moaned.

“Whut do she look like?” Isaiah demanded.

“She don’t favor nothin’ or nobody!” Little Bit sighed. “_Oo-ee!_ Her’s got on shoes an’ socks, but her dress is cut bobtail----”

He stopped with a shriek. Diada, carrying his gun, came walking sedately across the clearing toward the cabin.

Isaiah gazed upon her for a second, then slowly raised himself to his feet, and with the explosive force of a steam-whistle, he bellowed:

“My--good--gosh!”

He ran to the side of the house where an ax reposed upon the wood-pile. Seizing this, he flourished it in a threatening manner and bawled:

“Hey, dar! Stop! Hol’ up! Quit yo’ foolin’!”

Diada paid no heed to these admonitions, but continued her advance, holding Little Bit’s gun by the end of the barrel and swinging it like a club.

“Throw a chunk at her, Little Bit!” Isaiah howled. “Skeer her away!”

The boy snatched up a pebble, hurled it at Diada, and ducked under the house.

Diada stopped. Beholding Isaiah’s threatening gestures with the ax, she whirled the gun around her head like a cowboy preparing to hurl a lasso, and threw it, butt-foremost, at Isaiah. The weapon curved like an arrow, missed Isaiah’s head by two feet, struck against the side of the cabin, smashing the gun-butt to splinters and discharging both barrels!

Thereupon Isaiah and Little Bit departed from the hog-camp and did not come back for two days.

The sound of the explosion frightened Diada, and she leaped back into the jungle like a deer, struck the Tickfall trail, and one hour later sat down beneath the pecan-tree in Gaitskill’s yard.

* * * * *

Late that night Colonel Tom Gaitskill stuck his head into the door of his wife’s bedroom and demanded in irascible tones:

“Mildred, where are those sky-muckle-dun-colored pajamas young Tom sent me from Chicago?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Gaitskill laughed. “Have you looked for them?”

“Yes, but I can’t find ’em. Come and help me hunt!”

Two minutes later Mrs. Gaitskill stuck her head into her husband’s room and demanded:

“Where is my silk flowered kimono? Is it in your room?”

“No!”

“I can’t find that kimono anywhere!”

The two began a search, but the missing articles were not found. When finally they abandoned the hunt, Gaitskill sighed in relief:

“I hope those pajamas are gone for good. Young Tom was a fool to send me such a slosh of color as they were--made me look like a soused rainbow!”