Occasionally some familiar sound came from the
world outside: the clang of the Tenth Avenue car or the whistle of a
tugboat out in the river, but these sounds were of another
existence--they seemed distant and unfamiliar and wholly out of
place in the mystery and terror of the Voodoo seance.
The minutes slid by, and nothing happened. The suspense was worse
than ever. Something stirred in the circle. Two hundred hearts
missed a beat. Then the whining, terror-stricken voice of the
mulatto broke the stillness: "Let Travis try," he whispered hoarsely.
"My spirits will not come until 'e 'as tried. Let 'im try fo'
fifteen minutes, and when 'e 'as failed I will summon the ghost of
Bula-Wayo, the king of all the tribes of the Niger. But let Travis
try first!" This last almost pleadingly.
A moment more of silence and Ambrose's deep voice boomed forth in
the darkness.
"Ah's willin'," he declared. "Anythin' dat now appears will be mah
doin'--ten minits is all Ah asks. Am dat sat'sfact'ry?"
"Yaas," replied the voice of Behemoth Scott. "Go ahaid wif yo'
sperit-summonin', Mista Travis."
"Ah'll cawncentrate now," replied Ambrose, "an' sho'tly you-all will
witness ample proof of mah bein' a genuine Voo-doo.
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