For young Benson had learned, from the night clerk at the hotel, that, quiet and “dead” as Annapolis appears to the stranger, there are “tough” places into which a seafaring stranger may find his way.
“No, sah; no, sah,” protested the mulatto. “Marse Truax done got sick right and proper.”
“Why, confound it, we're leaving the town behind,” cried Jack, a few moments later, after peering out through the cab window.
“Dat's all right, sah. Dere ain' nuffin' to be 'fraid ob, sah.”
“Afraid?” uttered Jack, scornfully, with a side glance at the mulatto. The submarine boy felt confident that, in a stretch of trouble, he could thrash this guide of his in very short order.
“Ah might jess well tell yo' wheah we am gwine, sah,” volunteered the mulatto, presently.
“Yes,” Benson retorted, drily. “I think you may.”
“Marse Truax, sah, he done hab er powah ob [pg 080] trouble, sah, las' wintah, wid rheumatiz, sah. He 'fraid he gwine cotch it again dis wintah, sah. Now, sah, dere am some good voodoo doctahs 'roun' Annapolis, so Marse Truax, he done gwine to see, sah, what er voodoo can promise him fo' his rheumatiz. I'se a runnah, sah, for de smahtest ole voodoo doctah, sah, in de whole state ob Maryland.”
“Then you took Truax to a voodoo doctor to-night?” demanded Jack, almost contemptuously.
“Yes, sah; yes, sah.”