"No, sah; no, sah," protested the mulatto. "Marse Truax done got sick
right and proper."
"Why, confound it, we're leaving the town behind," cried Jack, a few
moments later, after peering out through the cab window.
"Dat's all right, sah. Dere ain' nuffin' to be 'fraid ob, sah."
"Afraid?" uttered Jack, scornfully, with a side glance at the mulatto. The
submarine boy felt confident that, in a stretch of trouble, he could
thrash this guide of his in very short order.
"Ah might jess well tell yo' wheah we am gwine, sah," volunteered the
mulatto, presently.
"Yes," Benson retorted, drily. "I think you may."
"Marse Truax, sah, he done hab er powah ob trouble, sah, las' wintah, wid
rheumatiz, sah. He 'fraid he gwine cotch it again dis wintah, sah. Now,
sah, dere am some good voodoo doctahs 'roun' Annapolis, so Marse Truax, he
done gwine to see, sah, what er voodoo can promise him fo' his rheumatiz.
I'se a runnah, sah, for de smahtest ole voodoo doctah, sah, in de whole
state ob Maryland."
"Then you took Truax to a voodoo doctor to-night?" demanded Jack, almost
contemptuously.
"Yes, sah; yes, sah."
"I thought Truax had more sense than to go in for such tomfoolery," Jack
Benson retorted, bluntly.
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