But Jack drew back, instinctively, out of the darkness.
"Don' yo', a w'ite man, be 'fraid ob ole voodoo house," advised the
mulatto, still speaking respectfully.
Afraid? Of course not. Relying on his muscle and his agility, Jack stepped
ahead. By a sudden jerk of his arm the mulatto guide shook out the flame
in the lantern.
"Here, you! What are you about?" growled Jack Benson, wheeling like a
flash upon his escort.
"Go 'long, yo' w'ite trash!" jeered the mulatto. He gave the boy a sudden,
forceful shove.
Jack Benson, under the impetus of that push, staggered ahead, seeking to
recover his balance. Without a doubt he would have done so, but, just
then, the floor under his feet ended. With a yell of dismay, the submarine
boy tottered, then plunged down, alighting on a bed of soft dirt many feet
below.
CHAPTER VII: JACK FINDS SOMETHING "NEW," ALL RIGHT
Jack Benson was on his feet in an instant. An angrier boy it would have
been hard to find.
From overhead came the sound of a loud guffaw.
"Oh, you infernal scoundrel!" raged the submarine boy, shaking his fist in
the dark.
"W'at am de matter wid yo', w'ite trash?" came the jeering query.
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