These, too, Benson passed up at the end of the cord. The mulatto disappeared, leaving the two dogs still on guard. At last, back came the light and the yellowish man with it.
"Yo' 'sho' is good picking, Marse Benson," grinned the guide of the night before. "Yo' has good pin feathers. Ah hope Ah'll suttinly meet yo' again."
"I hope we do meet at another time!" Jack Benson flared back, wrathily. The cool insolence of the fellow cut him to the marrow, yet where was the use of disobeying a rascal flanked by two such willing and capable dogs?
"Now, yo' jes' put dese t'ings on, Marse Benson, ef yo' please, sah," mocked the mulatto, tossing down some woefully tattered, nondescript garments, and, after them, a battered, rimless Derby hat and a pair of brogans out at the toes.
"I'll be hanged if I'll put on such duds!" quivered Jack.
"Jes' as yo' please, ob co'se, Marse Benson," came the answer, from above. "But, ef yo' don' put dem t'ings on, yo'll sho'ly hab ter gwine back ter 'Napolis in yo' undahelo's. An' yo's gwine back right away, too, so, ef yo' wants tr gwine back weahin' ernuff clo'es—"
"Oh, well, then—!" ground out the submarine boy, savagely enough.
He attired himself in these tattered ends of raiment. Had he not been so angry he must have roared at sight of his comical self when the dressing was completed.