“’Scuse me, sab. Yassuh. But I’se done gotter tell yo’ dat dere’s a mos’ impohtant visitor heah. Yassuh.”
“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.