The round object was a carved head—and as hideous a bit of work as Carl had ever seen. The eyes were black and beady, and set under heavy overhanging brows; the nose was wide at its base and suggested the negroid type; the mouth had thick lips and was twisted into a grin. But it was not a mirthful grin the face wore—far from that. There was something demoniacal, menacing and uncanny in that petrified grin—something that caught the heart with clammy hands and sent chill after chill along the nerves.
Carl turned his face away. Bangs, with a terrified yell, jumped for the door, but Jurgens grabbed him before he could get out of the room.
"Hold up, you fool!" stormed Jurgens. "Are you going to run from a piece of carved wood?"
"Hanged if I want to be anywhere near that thing!" palpitated Bangs. "Let's get out of here!"
"Wait. Put a clamp on your nerves and don't make a fool of yourself."
Leaving Bangs to watch him with bulging eyes, Jurgens returned to the head and picked it up.
"There are letters carved in the top of it," said he.
"Do they spell anything?" whispered Bangs, moistening his dry lips with his tongue.
"'Obboney.' That's what I make out of them."
"What's Obboney?" queried Bangs. "Does it mean anything? If it does, what?"