“Golly, Mars’r Jacobs! Cato’s right grad ter see yer heah,” he said, fervently. “Ye kim in der berry time. Cato war a’most gone, mars’r.”
“What was up?” asked the men, pressing about him. “Tell us! did you see the gal?”
“No, mars’r, Cato done see’d nothin’ ob her,” he answered, mournfully. “But de niggah see’d suthin’ berry much worse—he done see’d Obeah. Oh, Mars’r Jacobs, it was ter’ble—ter’ble.”
“What was it? what was it?” were the impatient demands. Cato peered round fearfully. He was really frightened, they could see, and as he was by no means a coward, they knew that something had happened. Then as if reassured by the presence of so many brave and strong men he told his story. They listened with great attention, and when he was through, many declared their opinion, in a few words.
“Snakes in his shoes—the tree-mens.”
(They all knew he drank immoderately.)
“No, sar, it wasn’t no tree-mens,” he protested, not yet recovered from his fright. “It was too ter’ble—too hor’ble. Mars’r Jacobs, Cato won’t be Creeper berry much longah. I done heerd de voice—fo’ shore I heerd um. ‘Stop!’ it said; an’ for de life ob me dis niggah hadn’t de strength ter move. Dat voice, mars’r, dat voice I heerd; and dis niggah ain’t gwine ter tech whisky ag’in.”
“How did the voice sound? Was it like the one we heard a little while ago?” asked Josh Dunbar.
“Jess the same, mars’r—jess percisely the same,” answered Cato.
“Ha!” cried Sol. “Hyar’s business! now, Martin, stay with Cato—he’s too weak to follow. Stay hyar ontil we kim back. Come, boys, come; hyar’s ter ketch that voice. It’s suthin’ ter do with leetle Katie, sartin. Come on and cock the black feather!”