“Yes,” Benson retorted, drily. “I think you may.”

“Marse Truax, sah, he done hab er powah ob trouble, sah, las’ wintah, wid
rheumatiz, sah. He ’fraid he gwine cotch it again dis wintah, sah. Now,
sah, dere am some good voodoo doctahs ’roun’ Annapolis, so Marse Truax, he
done gwine to see, sah, what er voodoo can promise him fo’ his rheumatiz.
I’se a runnah, sah, for de smahtest ole voodoo doctah, sah, in de whole
state ob Maryland.”

“Then you took Truax to a voodoo doctor to-night?” 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 answering Jack’s half-amused
questions, the cab left Annapolis further and further behind.