“Then you took Truax to a voodoo doctor tonight?” demanded Jack, almost contemptuously.

“Yes, sah; yes, sah.”

“I thought Truax had more sense than to go in for such tomfoolery,” Jack Benson retorted, bluntly.

The mulatto launched into a prompt, energetic defense of the voodoo doctors.  Young Benson had heard a good deal about these clever old colored frauds.  In spite of his contempt, the submarine boy found himself interested.  He had heard about the charms, spells, incantations and other humbugs practised on colored dupes and on some credulous whites by these greatest of all quacks.  The voodoo methods of “healing” are brought out of the deepest jungles of darkest Africa, yet there are many ignorant people, even among the whites, who believe steadfastly in the “cures” wrought by the voodoo.

While the mulatto guide was talking, or swearing Jack’s half-amused questions, the cab left Annapolis further and further behind.

“Yo’ see, sah,” the guide went on, “Marse Truax wa’n’t in no fit condition, sah, to try de strongest voodoo medicine dat he called fo’.  So, w’ile de voodoo was sayin’ his strongest chahms, Marse Truax done fall down, frothin’ at de mouth.  He am some bettah, now, sah, but he kain’t be move’ from de voodoo’s house ’cept by a frien’.”

“I’ll get a chance to see one of these old voodoo frauds, anyway,” Jack told himself.  “This new experience will be worth the time it keeps me out of my bed.  What a pity Hal missed a queer old treat like this!”

When the cab at last stopped, Benson looked out to find that the place was well down a lonely country road, well lined with trees on either side.  The house, utterly dark from the outside, was a ramshackle, roomy old affair.

“Shall Ah wait fo’ yo’?” asked the old colored driver.

“Yes, wait for me,” directed Jack, briefly.

“Yeah; wait fo’ de gemmun.  He’s all right,” volunteered the mulatto.

“Mebbe yo’ kin see some voodoo wo ’k, too, ef yo’s int’rested,” hinted the guide, in a whisper, as he fitted a key to a lock, and swung a door open.  In a hallway stood a lighted lantern, which the guide picked up.

“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.