Uttering a wild yell that only a human throat could have emitted, and with his mouth open as wide as the mouth of the cave towards which he rushed, Sam Jedfoot—for it was his own substantial self, I saw, and no ghost at all, as I was now convinced—cleared in two bounds the intervening space that lay between him and the entrance to the cavern, seeking to get away as far as possible from his terrible visitant. Apparently, he must have thought the other to be the ‘genuine Simon Pure,’ come to punish him for his false pretences in making believe to be a denizen of the spirit world whilst he was yet in the flesh, and so poaching unlawfully on what was by right and title the proper domain of the ghostal tribe!
In his hurry and haste, however, to avoid this avenging spectre, poor Sam, naturally, did not see me standing in front of the cave blocking the entrance, nor had I time to get out of his way, so as to avoid the impetuous rush he made for the opening.
The consequences may be readily surmised.
He came against me full butt, and we both tumbled to the ground headlong together all of a heap.
Sam thereupon imagined the terrible apparition to be clutching him, and that his last hour had come.
“Oh, golly! De debbel’s got me, de debbel’s got me fo’ suah!” he roared out in an agony of terror, clawing at my clothes and nearly tearing the shirt off my back in his attempts to regain his feet, as we rolled over and over together down the decline towards the shore. “Lor’, a mussy! Do forgib me dis time, Massa Duppy, fo’ play-actin’ at ghostesses, an’ I promises nebber do so no moah! O Lor’! O Lor’! I’se a gone niggah! Bress de Lor’, fo’ ebbah an’ ebbah! Amen!”