Plainly, the wretch did not much fear discovery---still
less interference.
Humming an old plantation melody the negro reached his concealed magneto,
then stood up for a brief moment, staring seaward in the direction from
which he had just come. His garments dripped water; his whole appearance
was bedraggled, yet there was something utterly shaggy, majestic, in this
huge specimen of the human race.
"Ah done reckon dem gemmen gwine lose some mo' of deir wall to-night,"
chuckled the negro softly.
"Go as far as you like, Mr. Sambo Ebony!" grinned Tom Reade, under his
breath. "I've wished something else on you this time."
Carelessly the negro bent over his magneto, seized the handle and gave a
push.
Then he straightened up, listening. Only the soft sighing of the southern
wind came to his ears.
"Yo' shuah done gotta use a mo' greasy elbow dan dat, chile," chuckled this
imp of Satan aloud, though in a soft voice that seemed out of all
proportion to his bulk.
Then he gave a half dozen indolent though steady strokes to the handle of
the magneto.
"Whah am dat 'splosion?" he asked himself in wonderment. "Am mah eardrum
done gone busted? Moke, yo' am plumb lazy this night!"
This time the huge negro pumped at the handle of the magneto until he was
all but out of breath.
Pages:
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144