This in itself made the thing doubtful. But more than this,
the marks were the unmistakably accurate work of an electric
tattooing machine.
Ambrose had spent his youth on the Galveston water front, and knew
tattooing in all its forms. Electric tattooing on a Voodoo was about
as much in keeping with the ancient and awesome dignity of the cult
as spangled tights would be on the King of England. No--it was
ridiculous. Dominique was not a Voodoo!
Ambrose continued his solitaire, humming as he played. Occasionally
he cast an amused eye at the excited groups across the room, and was
not surprised when Mr. Behemoth Scott, president of the club, at
last came over to him.
"Mistah Travis," began Mr. Scott deferentially, clearing his throat,
"would you-all be good enough to jine our little gatherin' while we
confabulate on dis hyar recent contabulaneous incident?"
"Suttingly, Mr. Scott, suttingly!" said Ambrose, pushing back his
chair, and crossing the room with the quaking official. "What can Ah
do fo' you-all?"
"Well, jest this," said Mr. Scott. "You gennlemen kin'ly correc' me
or bear out what Ah say. Leavin' aside all argument whether they
_is_ sech things as Voodoos, Ah guess any of you gennlemen from
the South will remember Aunt Belle Agassiz and Tom Blue.
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