Saying this, de Cripsny put his hands out, and, to the Englishmen’s horror, squeezed an imaginary throat, made a pass with his knife, and, lifting an empty goblet, illustrated to the astonished listeners how the papaloi slit the victim’s throat and drank their blood!
“’Tis mixed with rum and called the wine from the Goat without Horns.”
“Surely it’s not possible in these enlightened times?” said Clensy.
De Cripsny gave a grim smile, and, taking the Haytian Press from his pocket, translated the following:
“Anyone giving information which would lead to the discovery of the hiding-place or temples of the Vaudoux worshippers will receive a reward of £500.”
On hearing this, Biglow brought his big fist down on the table, crash! and yelled, “By the gods of heathen lands, we’re saved! Vaudoux worship; splendid thing; we’re saved!”
“Saved? what jer mean?” said Adams, as Clensy looked up and wondered why the horror that they had just heard about should appeal to that capacious intellect as a blessing instead of a curse.
“Five hundred pounds reward! It’s mine!” reiterated Biglow.
“Yours! Ours!” gasped Adams and Clensy, as they both realised that their sanguine, uproarious comrade had got an idea in his head that he could discover the vaudoux miscreants and receive the reward.
“Yes, mine!” replied Biglow, as he swallowed his grog. Then he burst into song. His hilarity was contagious. Adams lost his woebegone expression. In less than ten minutes they all felt assured that they were not only safe from the terrors of the vaudoux, but were likely to receive a portion of the reward that Biglow seemed so certain of obtaining.