Jack’s mulatto guide led him down the street a little way, then around a
corner. Here a rickety old cab with a single horse attached, waited. A
gray old darkey sat on the driver’s seat.

“Step right inside, sah. We’ll be dere direckly. Marse Truax’ll be
powahful glad to see yo’, sah.”

“See here,” demanded Jack, after they had driven several blocks at a good
speed, “Truax hasn’t been getting into any drinking scrapes, has he?
Hasn’t been getting himself arrested, has he?”

For young Benson had learned, from the night clerk at the hotel, that,
quiet and “dead” as Annapolis appears to the stranger, there are “tough”
places into which a seafaring stranger may find his way.

“No, sah; no, sah,” protested the mulatto. “Marse Truax done got sick
right and proper.”

“Why, confound it, we’re leaving the town behind,” cried Jack, a few
moments later, after peering out through the cab window.

“Dat’s all right, sah. Dere ain’ nuffin’ to be ’fraid ob, sah.”

“Afraid?” uttered Jack, scornfully, with a side glance at the mulatto. The
submarine boy felt confident that, in a stretch of trouble, he could
thrash this guide of his in very short order.

“Ah might jess well tell yo’ wheah we am gwine, sah,” volunteered the
mulatto, presently.