With a wild shout they sent their steeds pounding down the road after her.
Then around the bend of the river came a beautiful sea-going yacht--an exquisite queen of the waters. Her whistle emitted four long, clear signals for the Tickfall landing.
“By George!” Colonel Gaitskill exclaimed, “that is Captain Lemuel Manse’s yacht. My telegram caught him at Vicksburg, and he turned around and came back!”
In a moment the yacht came opposite to where Diada stood upon the bank of the river. The watching men saw her lift her hands high toward the heavens. Then they heard a long, clear shout, ending with the familiar: “Whoosh! Whoo-ash!”
The yacht answered with two short, sharp whistle signals.
Diada ran swiftly down the levee, and then leaped high and plunged far over into the muddy waters of the Mississippi!
The wondering, watching men saw her head emerge from the waves, saw her swim like a fish to the yacht, saw her seize a rope which was tossed over the side, and climb hand over hand to safety and rest and peace and the care and protection of her friends!
“That’s all, men!” Gaitskill said in a voice which choked in his throat. “You may all go back home now. Diada is gone from Tickfall forever!”
The yacht anchored in the middle of the river; a skiff went to shore and brought Colonel Tom Gaitskill and Sheriff Flournoy on board.
Sitting around a small table on the deck they told Captain Lemuel Manse the story of Diada’s sojourn in Tickfall.
“Lem, what the devil did that wench mean by hollering ‘Whoosh!’ at everybody?”
“She was not saying ‘Whoosh,’” Captain Manse replied. “What she said was ‘_Whu atch!_’ That was the first expression she used to me when the cannibal chief brought her aboard the yacht.”
“Well, what does it mean?” Gaitskill persisted.
Captain Manse put his hand with a kindly gesture upon his friend’s arm and told him.
Gaitskill’s fine face turned ashen, and he winced as if a knife had pierced his heart.
Sheriff John Flournoy loafed in the office of the Tickfall _Whoop_, and listened to the bark and splutter of a little one-dog-power engine attached to the printing press. The air was permeated with the odor of gasoline, machine oil, and printers’ ink. The cigar he was attempting to smoke tasted of all three, and he tossed it out of the window.