Ham Mockus, who had been standing in the room unnoticed, put this question.
“Why, of course we don’t any of us believe that, Ham,” retorted the owner of the bungalow, with a smile.
“Den yo’ find a powahful lot o’ folks dat knows mo’ dan yo’ do erbout it, sah. ’Scuse me, sah.”
“Men and women who think they know anything about the Ghost of Alligator Swamp are the victims of their own imaginations and of children’s tales, Ham,” laughed Henry Tremaine. Then he added, with ugly emphasis:
“Before we get through with this business, I intend to see this much-talked-about and nonsensical ghost laid by the heels! I’ll spend a lot of money, and hire a lot of men to help me, before I’ll give up the pursuit of this sham ghost! You stay here, Ham, and you’ll see the ghost in handcuffs!”
Ham Mockus, however, declined to be fooled by any such talk as this. After remaining respectfully silent for some moments, the colored steward opened his mouth to remark:
“Ah done reckun, sah, de bes’ t’ing yo’ can do, sah, will be to send someone to fin’ ole Uncle Tobey an’ tote him heah.”
“Who’s Uncle Tobey?” demanded Mr. Tremaine, removing his cigar from his mouth.