LOOK FOR A WHITE HORSE
It was useless to try to recover the money, and the two friends had to
walk off minus five dollars and followed by the derisive laughter of the
hag.
“At all events, she gave us one clew,” said Sam hopefully; “the man
drove a brown horse. We must look for every driver in Kingston with a
brown horse.”
“As it so happens,” commented De Garros, “that is no clew at all, for I
happened to notice that the equine in question was a white one.”
“Better still. A white horse should be easier to run down than a brown
one,” declared Sam. “Hullo, there goes one now!”
They halted the driver, but he declared he knew nothing of the matter,
having been out in the suburbs all the morning.
“Oh, well, there must be other white horses,” said Sam, as the man drove
off and they turned to take up the quest afresh.
“I believe, too, I’d remember the driver if I saw him again,” said De
Garros.
“Better and better. I’ll bet we’ll have good old Jack back with us
before night,” declared Sam hopefully. “At all events, we’ve got
something to work on now.”
“That’s so,” agreed De Garros. “But if we’ve got to interview every
owner of a white horse in Kingston, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“I don’t care how hard I work, so long as we can find some trace of
Jack,” declared Sam positively.
An aged negro driving a dejected-looking white horse jogged by. The
horse was plastered with dust till it was difficult to decide on what
his real color might be.
Sam stopped De Garros by a tug at the arm.
“Stop that fellow,” he said; “there’s another white horse.”
But oddly enough it was the darky who pulled up without any admonition
to stop. He checked his aged beast and addressed De Garros.
“’Pears ter me lak you am de party wot addressed dat young man wot was
a-helpin’ an-nudder gen’mun inter mah equipage dis mawn-in’?” he said.
“That’s right!” cried De Garros. “You’re the man we’ve been looking high
and low for. Where did you take him?”
“’Bout five miles out down de Castle Road, ’Busha,’” said the old man.
“Five miles out down the road?”
“Yas, Busha, an’ den dey takes him an’ puts him in an awfulmobile and
runs off wid him. Ah t’inks to myself dat ain’ des right. When Ah gets
back to town, Ah’s goin’ to hunt up dat gen’muns wot spoke to him dis
mawnin’ and acquaint him with de circumplexes.”
“Great Scott! This is a clew, indeed. Do you know where they were going
to take him?” choked out Sam.
“Yas, Busha. I hear dem say de Lion’s Mouf.”
“The Lion’s Mouth!”
“Dat’s right, massa. De Lion’s Mouf ol’ time name fo’ a mighty big hole
in de groun’ out at ol’ Don Pedro’s Castle. Don’ nobody hardly never go
dar. White folks don’ know ’bout it. Niggers all scared ob dere bein’ a
ghos’. Ah was dere once when Ah was lil’ an’ dat’s all I know ’bout it.”
De Garros, with the excitable nature of his race, was hopping about from
foot to foot. As the old negro finished speaking, he burst out:
“Do you want to make some money?”
The old man’s eyes popped out of his head. Here was another chance to
make money. Things were coming his way. But he deemed it well to be
prudent.
“Oh, as ter dat, I ain’t particular. Ah’m right tired an’——”
“Put your horse in the stable and meet us here in half an hour. It will
be worth your while. I want you to guide us to the Lion’s Mouth.”
“Berry well, Busha. Ah’ll jes’ put up ole Whitey, he’s nigh tired out,
an’ Ah’ll be right back.”
“Good; hurry. Now, then, Sam——”
“Where are you going?” demanded Sam, carried off his feet by the
volcanic activity of the young Frenchman. “What are you going to do
now?”
“Get about a mile of rope and then charter the fastest auto they’ve got
in this town,” was the reply.
“Then you think——”
“I don’t think, I know, that in revenge for his activities against him,
Jarrold has tried to wreak a hideous vengeance on Jack.”
“In the Lion’s Mouth?”
“I don’t know. I surmise so. But let’s waste no time here in
speculation. Get two hundred feet of the best manila rope you can buy.
In the mean time I’ll charter a car. Then we’ll pick up old Black Strap
and drive at top speed for the Lion’s Mouth.”
“Heaven grant we won’t be too late!” exclaimed Sam, but the lively young
aviator had darted off, leaving Sam dazed. Truly the climax had come
quickly. Jack kidnapped, possibly drugged, and cast into a deep pit! Had
it not been for Providence, they might never have heard of him again.
And so it came about that when Jack emerged from the mouth of “the
chimney,” not more than twenty yards from the rim of the Lion’s Mouth,
the first sounds that greeted him were the voices of his friends who had
been peering, with blanched cheeks, into the profundities of the Lion’s
Mouth.