The Motor Boat Club in Florida: or, Laying the Ghost of Alligator Swamp

“A visitor?” demanded Henry Tremaine, looking his colored steward over keenly.

“Yassuh! Yassuh! De man dat can he’p us moh’n anyone else in de whole worl’. Yassuh. He jest fotch up at de kitchen do’. It’s ole Uncle Tobey, de greates’ voodoo doctah dat eber was. Yassuh.”

“By Jove, I’ll see him,” muttered Henry Tremaine, leaping up.

“Yassuh! Ah done know yo’ would, fo’ shuah,” whispered Ham Mockus, keeping right at the elbow of his employer, as Tremaine strode toward the kitchen. “But be mos’ kahful to treat Uncle Tobey wid great respec’,” admonished Ham. “I done tole yo’, Marse Tremaine, ole Uncle Tobey, he-um de greates’ voodoo in de worl’. Ef yo’ make him mad, sah, den yo’ teeth all gwine ter drop out, all yo’ frien’s die, yo’ hab bad luck forebber an’ – ”

Henry Tremaine paused long enough in the kitchen to survey the cunning-faced old darkey who stood near the door. Uncle Tobey looked old enough to have spent a hundred years in this world. He was a thin, bent, gaunt and ragged old man whose keen eyes looked supernaturally brilliant.

“So you’re Uncle Tobey?” demanded Henry Tremaine, briskly.

“Yassuh!” replied the shrivelled little old caller.

“You’re the voodoo?”

“Yassuh.”

“You can quiet the Ghost of Alligator Swamp?”

“Yassuh.”

“How do you know you can?”

“Ah has done it befo’, sah – when folks done pay me well ernuff fo’ it,” grinned Uncle Tobey, cunningly.

“Well, we haven’t minded the ghost so much,” went on Henry Tremaine. “But last night your ghost took away one of our brightest young men.”

“Yassuh. Ah know,” admitted Uncle Tobey. “Ole Unc Tobe done know ebberyt’ing w’ut done happen, sah.”

“How did you know it?” demanded Tremaine, with unwonted sharpness.

“W’y sah, all de birds ob de air done tote news to ole Unc Tobe,” asserted the aged negro, solemnly.

“Dat’s a fac’. Yassuh. Yassuh,” insisted Ham.

“Can you restore that young man to us, Tobey?” questioned Tremaine.

“Yassuh. Ef yo’ done pay me well fo’ it.”

“How much?”

Uncle Tobey advanced upon his questioner, raising his head up to whisper in Tremaine’s ear:

“T’ree t’ousan’ dollahs, sah – real money in mah hand. Ef yo’ don’ wanter to do it, den de young man, Marse Halstead, he-um done shuah die!”

“Nonsense!” scoffed the owner of the bungalow. “That’s more money than anyone ever pays a voodoo. Man, I’ll give you twenty dollars when young Halstead walks in on us. Not a cent more.”

“Yo’ll pay me de whole sum, sah, or yo’ll neber see de young marse ergin,” declared Uncle Tobey, in another whisper.

Henry Tremaine suddenly shot out his right hand, gripping the old voodoo’s arm tightly.

“You’re in with the Everglades gang, Tobey! That’s what you are. Ham! This old fellow doesn’t get away from us until officers come to take him. I’ve laid by the heels a big part of the ghost!”

But Ham Mockus had fled in speechless terror.

CHAPTER XIV

TOM HALSTEAD, STRATEGIST

A FORBIDDING countenance was that worn by black Mr. Kink.

He belonged to the worst species of shiftless, vagrant Southern darkey. He was as different from the respectable, dependable house negro as a stormy night is from a fair one. Kink had served many terms in jail ere he gained enough in the wisdom of his kind to take to the trackless wastes of the Everglades. The fellow’s face was scarred from many a brawl. He seldom laughed; when he did, it was in cruelty.

Kink was slighter, and far less powerful than Jabe, though he possessed far more of wiry agility than the other negro.

“Ah jes’ done hope yo’ make a move dat yo’ hadn’t done oughter,” he muttered, scowling at young Halstead, then fingering the rifle meaningly.

“Make your mind easy,” retorted Captain Tom. “I’ve no notion for laying myself liable to a rifle bullet.”

“Ef yo’ jes’ gib me one ’scuse,” glowered Kink.

As if to settle the fact that he did not intend to do anything of the sort the motor boat captain half-closed his eyes, studying the ground.

Yet, not for a moment did Halstead cease to hope that he might find a way out of this predicament. Only one black man – one rifle – and that capable little motor launch tied so close at hand!

Presently Kink rested the butt of the rifle briefly on the ground while from one of his pockets he drew forth an old corn-cob pipe and a pinch of coarse tobacco grown in the Everglades. No sooner did he have the pipe going than the negro, watchful all the while, picked up the hunting rifle once more.

“Pretty rank tobacco you have,” observed Tom Halstead, though he tried to speak pleasantly.

“Best Ah can get in dis great swamp,” growled Kink. “Yo? got any erbout yo’ clo’es?”

“I don’t smoke,” Halstead replied.

“Umph!” growled Kink, as though his opinion of the boy had fallen several notches lower.

“Do you never get hold of any good tobacco from the outside world?” questioned Tom.

“Meanin’ sto’ tobacco?” suggested Kink.

“Yes.”

“Sometimes,” admitted Kink. “But not of’en, ob co’se.”

“How long since you’ve had a cigar!” asked Tom, with an appearance of pleasant interest.

“Real cigar, made ob sto’ tobacco!” demanded Kink.

“Yes.”