“Mistah Travis,” began Mr. Scott deferentially, clearing his throat, “would you-all be good enough to jine our little gatherin’ while we confabulate on dis hyar recent contabulaneous incident?”

“Suttingly, Mr. Scott, suttingly!” said Ambrose, pushing back his chair, and crossing the room with the quaking official.  “What can Ah do fo’ you-all?”

“Well, jest this,” said Mr. Scott.  “You gennlemen kin’ly correc’ me or bear out what Ah say.  Leavin’ aside all argument whether they is sech things as Voodoos, Ah guess any of you gennlemen from the South will remember Aunt Belle Agassiz and Tom Blue.  Ah guess yo’ mammies all done tole ‘bout the African Voodoos, an’ how ebery now an’ den one of ’em crops up still.  An’ Ah guess dat we’ve seen to-night dat we’ve got a Voodoo among us.  Now, Mr. Travis”—­here he turned to Ambrose—­“we know what Aunt Belle Agassiz done on de Mathis Plantation in Georgia—­you ought to know what Tom Blue did in Texas.  So we wants to warn you, as a fren’ an’ membah of dis club in good standin’, dat you better leave town to-night.”

An assenting murmur arose from the crowd, with much rolling of eyes and nodding of heads.

Ambrose held up his hand for silence.  A serious expression came over his features, and he towered tall and straight before them.

“Gennlemen,” he said, “Ah sho appreciates yo’ good sperit in dis hyar unfo’tunate affair.  But Ah tells you-all hyar an’ now dat Dominique Raffin ain’t no mo’ Voodoo den Ah is.  Now, Ah ain’t sayin’ dat he ain’t a Voodoo, an’ Ah ain’t sayin’ dat Ah am one.  All Ah says is dat Ah’s as much of a Voodoo as he is—­an’ Ah’m willin’ to prove it!”

“How you-all do dat, Ambrose?” asked somebody.

“Ah’m comin’ to dat,” replied Ambrose.  “If you-all wants to decide dis mattah beyont all doubt, Ah respekf’ly suggests dat we hold a see-ance in dis hyar room, under any c’nditions dat you-all kin d’vise.  If Ah cain’t show yo mo’ supernat’ral man’festations dan he can, Ah gives him fifty dollahs.  If it’s de oder way ‘roun’, he leaves de city within twenty-fo’ hours.  Is dat fair?”

“Well, it suttinly soun’s puff’cly jest,” replied Mr. Scott.  “We-all will appint a committee to frame de rules of de see-ance, an’ make ’em fair fo’ both.  You’s been willin’ to prove yo’-se’f, Ambrose, an’ yo’ couldn’t do mo’.  If dis m’latter Voodoo don’t want to do lak’wise, he can leave dese pahts moughty sudden.  Ain’t dat so, gennlemen?”

“Yassuh—­he’ll leave quick!” was the threatening reply.

“All right den, Ambrose,” continued the spokesman, “we’ll ‘range fo’ dis sperit-summonin’ contes’ jes’ as soon as we kin.  We’ll have it nex’ Satiddy night at lates’.  Meanwhile we-all is moughty obleeged to yo’ for yo’ willin’-ness to do de right thing.”

The great night arrived, and San Juan, dressed in its gala finery, wended its chattering way to the Senegambian seance.  But beneath the finery and the chatter ran a subtle under-current of foreboding, for your negro is superstitious, and, well, Voodoos are Voodoos!