“Now, go quiet-lak, on tip-toe. Sh!” cautioned the guide, himself moving stealthily into the nearest room. Jack Benson began to feel secretly awestruck and “creepy,” though he was too full of grit to betray the fact.
At the further end of the room the guide, holding the lantern behind his body as though by accident, threw open another door.
“Pass right on through dis room, ahead ob me, sah,” begged the guide, respectfully.
But Jack drew back, instinctively, out of the darkness.
“Don' yo', a w'ite man, be 'fraid ob ole voodoo house,” advised the mulatto, still speaking respectfully.
Afraid? Of course not. Relying on his muscle and his agility, Jack stepped ahead. By a sudden jerk of his arm the mulatto guide shook out the flame in the lantern.
“Here, you! What are you about?” growled Jack Benson, wheeling like a flash upon his escort.
“Go 'long, yo' w'ite trash!” jeered the mulatto. He gave the boy a sudden, forceful shove.
Jack Benson, under the impetus of that push, staggered ahead, seeking to recover his balance. [pg 083] Without a doubt he would have done so, but, just then, the floor under his feet ended. With a yell of dismay, the submarine boy tottered, then plunged down, alighting on a bed of soft dirt many feet below.