San Juan, fearing the
Raffin mulatto and his ghostly powers, had held its respectful
distance ever since the evening when Ambrose and his rage had
revealed them. Familiarity breeding contempt, Miss Aphrodite knew
her man, and feared him not.
They found the rooms of the social club full of excited negroes, for
never before in San Juan's history had such a momentous event been
scheduled. Raffin and Aphrodite were received with a fearsome
respect by Behemoth Scott, who had been appointed master of
ceremonies.
"Jes' make yo'se'f to home," he greeted them. "Mista Travis ain't
come yit; we has ten minutes befo' de contes' styarts."
At last, with a bare minute to spare, Ambrose smilingly entered. He
wore his splendid full-dress suit, a wonderful creation of San
Juan's leading tailor, who, at Ambrose's tasteful suggestion, had
faced the lapels with satin of the most royal purple. Set out by
this background of colourful lapel was a huge yellow chrysanthemum,
while on the broad red band that diagonally traversed his shining
shirt front glittered like a decoration, the insignia from his
Swalecliffe uniform cap.
"Good evenin', folks," was his cheerful greeting. "If you-all is
quite ready fo' dis _see_-ance, an' provided mah--er--wuthy opponent
am ready, Ah'd jes' as soon _pro_ceed.
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