“What makes you feel that way, Bimbo?” he asked. “Anything ’special.”
The darky scratched his head with a puzzled expression.
“Nosah, Marse Phil,” he said at last with the air of one striving for the exact truth, “Ah cain’t go so far’s t’ say they’s anythin’ ’special makes me know dis island ain’t no good place to linger in, but Ah knows it aint, jes’ the same. I don’ feel it in my bones—yassir, Marse Phil, I don’ feel it.”
“Well, as long as you confine the feeling to your bones, Bimbo,” said Jack Benton, dryly, “I guess it can’t do anyone any harm.”
“Why, you old gloom hound you,” cried Steve, clapping poor Bimbo on the back with a force that made him wince. “What do you mean by saying this island isn’t good luck. What do you call the finding of the treasure, eh? I suppose that was bad luck!”
Bimbo shook his head, still wearing the puzzled look.
“No sah,” he said and turned toward the cave adding something under his breath that sounded like “yo ain’t got dat treasure, yet, no sir, you aint got dat treasure, yet.”
Steve looked after him exasperated, then turned to Phil.
“What do you suppose the fellow means?” he asked.
Phil shrugged.