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It seemed like a long drive to the boy, though Benson was certainly in no position to judge time accurately. At last the team was halted, along a stretch of road in a deep woods. The mulatto lifted the submarine boy out to the ground. “Now, w’en yo’s got yo’ se’f free, yo’ can take de road in dat direckshun,” declared the fellow, pointing. “Bimeby yo’ come in sight ob de town.
He attired himself in these tattered ends of raiment. Had he not been so angry he must have roared at sight of his comical self when the dressing was completed. “Now, yo’ll do, Ah reckons.” With that, the mulatto guide of the night before threw down one end of an inch rope. “Ah reckon yo’s sailor ernuff to clim’ dat. Come right erlong, ’less yo’ wants de dawgs ter jump down dar.”
“I’ll be hanged if I’ll put on such duds!” quivered Jack. “Jes’ as yo’ please, ob co’se, Marse Benson,” came the answer, from above. “But, ef yo’ don’ put dem t’ings on, yo’ll sho’ly hab ter gwine back ter ’Napolis in yo’ undahclo’s. An’ yo’s gwine back right away, too, so, ef yo’ wants ter gwine back weahin’ ernuff clo’es—” “Oh, well, then—!” ground out the submarine boy, savagely enough.
“Mebbe yo’ kin see some voodoo wo’k, too, ef yo’s int’rested,” hinted the guide, in a whisper, as he fitted a key to a lock, and swung a door open. In a hallway stood a lighted lantern, which the guide picked up. “Now, go quiet-lak, on tip-toe. Sh!” cautioned the guide, himself moving stealthily into the nearest room.
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