“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.  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.

CHAPTER VII:  JACK FINDS SOMETHING “NEW,” ALL RIGHT

Jack Benson was on his feet in an instant.  An angrier boy it would have been hard to find.

From overhead came the sound of a loud guffaw.

“Oh, you infernal scoundrel!” raged the submarine boy, shaking his fist in the dark.

“W’at am de matter wid yo’, w’ite trash?” came the jeering query.

“Let me get my hands on you, and I’ll show you!” quivered Benson.

“Yah!  Listen to yo’!  Yo’ wait er minute, an’ Ah’ll show yo’ a light.”

Gr-r-r-r!  Gr-r-r-r!  That sound from overhead was not pleasant.  Jack, in the few seconds that were left to him, could only guess as to the cause of the sounds.  Then, some fifteen feet over his head, a tiny flame sputtered.  This match-end was carried to the wick of the lantern that the yellowish guide had been carrying, and now the light illumined the place into which Jack Benson had fallen.

That place was a square-shaped pit, with boarded sides.  Up above, on a shelf of flooring, knelt the late guide, grinning down with a look of infernal glee.  On either side of the mulatto stood a heavy-jowled bull-dog.  Both brutes peered down, showing their teeth in a way to make a timid man’s blood run cold.

“Put those dogs back and come down here,” challenged Jack, shaking his fist.  “Come down, and I’ll teach you a few things, you rascal!”

“Don’ yo’ shake yo’ fist at me, or dem dawgs will sure jump down and tackle yo’,” grinned the guide, gripping at the collars of the brutes, which, truly, showed signs of intending to spring below.