“Now how do you suppose an Indian in Central America knows a trick that the African blacks use in their magic?” Tom said, out of the corner of his mouth, to Bill.
“They tell us in books that people came here from some old continent, ages ago—wasn’t it Atlantic——”
“Atlantis!” corrected Tom. “Cliff’s father told us about it—it was a great continent and it sank under the ocean.”
“Well, before it went down, history says, some wise people knew it was going to happen, and they came away and settled in safer places,” Bill stated.
“Do you suppose Toosa is one of their descendants?” Tom whispered. “He surely does seem to know a lot. And maybe some of the Atlantis people went to Africa, and that’s how the same customs spread.”
“Maybe,” agreed Bill. “Look, he’s swallowing the smoke. Don’t see how he stands it—just a sniff makes me sort of chokey.”
Toosa was drawing in great, sighing lungsful of the heavy and pungently acrid smoke. Then he settled back on his haunches, and to the amazement of even the trader, he spoke—in English![1]
“You—want—find—out—man called Mort Beech,” Toosa chanted in a halting, but deep, voice.
“Yes,” said Tom with a little shiver of inherited superstition, even though he knew there was more fuss than truth in the witchcraft part, even though the English was amazing. “Yes, sir!”
“Man is Colon—or Porto Bell’—look for in Porto Bell’——”