THE BLACK MAN'S TURN
Closer to the earth Tom tried to burrow. As to a plan, Tom Reade had none
now, save to watch, and, if possible, to learn something that he did not
already know.
Soft-footed, despite his great bulk, the negro approached with an air of
little concern. 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. Several dozen shoves he had administered before
he halted, let go of the magneto and raised himself to his full, majestic
height.
"Some black witch hab done gwine wish a big hoodoo on me!" grunted the
negro suspiciously. "Dis am do fust time dat de magernetto gwine back
on me like dis!"
In his bewilderment the one whom Tom had named Sambo glared around him.
His eyes gleamed with a phosphorescence like that which one sees on the
water on a lowering night. What Reade did not know was that this black
man possessed eyes that were a little keener in the dark than a bat's.
With a sudden "Woof!" Sambo went up in the air, moved sideways, and came
down on the startled Tom Reade with the force of a pile driver.
"Wha' yo' doing heah?" demanded the negro, gripping Reade by the coat
collar and dragging that hapless engineer to his feet.
Tom did not answer. To save his life he couldn't have answered just then,
his breath utterly gone.
"Wha' yo' want heah, anyway?" insisted Sambo, giving the youth a vicious
shake.
There was blood before the negro's eyes, or he would sooner have
recognized his victim. But at last he did see.
"So, I'se gwine cotch Mistah Reade himself!" snorted Sambo. "An' Ah
reckon I'se gwine foun' de differculty wid my magernetto at de same
time! Huh?"
Again he shook Tom, with an ease and yet a force that further drove the
breath from the young engineer's body.
"Why doan' yo' talk!" glared the negro, holding Tom out at arm's length
with one hand.
Tom could only groan. Yet that method of communication carried its own
explanation to the big black.
"Reckon yo' gwine talk w'en yo' get gale enough in yo' lungs," grinned the
negro. "In dat case Ah gwine lay yo' down on de groun' to fin' yo' breff."
Sambo's idea of laying Tom down was to give him a violent twist that
brought the lad flat on the ground at his captor's feet. Then the negro
sat on his captive to make sure that the latter did not escape.
"Take yo' time---ah got plenty," grimaced the black man.
Slowly the beaten-out breath came back to Tom Reade. Sambo, watching, knew
finally that his quarry was at last able to talk.
"Wha' yo' do to mah magernetto?" demanded Sambo.
"Guess," breathed Tom.
"Oh, take yo' time, boss. Ah got plenty ob dat accommerdation"
"What magneto are you talking about?" Reade queried innocently.
"Nebber heard ob it befo', eh, boss?"
"I've heard of plenty of magnetos, of course," admitted Tom. "But what
have you to do with one?"
For a brief instant Sambo was almost inclined to believe that Reade did
not fully know his secret. Finally it dawned on the brain of the big
black man that he was being hoaxed.
"Ef yo' doan wanter tell, yo' doan hab to, ob co'se," proposed Sambo. "It
ain't mah way to be too persistency wid de w'ite quality gemmen. But Ah
done thought maybe yo' know somethin' dat yo's burnin' to tell."
"Who are you, and what are you doing around here?" asked Tom. "I'm certain
you don't belong to my force of workmen---unless you just joined
yesterday. Are you working on the breakwater job?"
"Yessah," promptly answered Sambo with momentary gravity. Then his mood
changed to a chuckle.
"Dat am all right, Massa Reade," he allowed. "But yo' doan' fool dis
nigger as easy as yo' maybe think. Ah know what yo' watchin' me fo',
and Ah done know I'se been doin' jess w'at yo' think. So I guess we
doan' need no mo' conversationin', unless yo' willing to talk right out
and tell me w'at's w'at."
"Sambo," said Reade solemnly, "I imagine I'm not very intelligent, after
all. I listened to you attentively, but, for the life of me, I couldn't
make out what you were talking about."
"Kain't yo'?" the negro demanded, mockingly. "Den Ah done reckon Ah must
be a good deal of a scholar, ef Ah can talk so dat er w'ite quality gemmen
kain't undahstan' me."
Mr. Sambo Ebony chuckled gleefully in appreciation of his own joke.
"There's one thing I guess you can tell me, Sambo," Reade suggested
hopefully.
"W'at am dat, massa?"
"When are you going to change your seat and stop making me feel like a
very thin pancake?"
"W'en Ah done get mah mind made up."
"When you have your mind made up about---what?"
"About w'at I'se gwine do wid yo', Massa Reade."
"Well, what do you think you're going to do with me?" insisted Tom. "I'll
admit, Sambo, that I'm about losing my patience. Unless you get up off
of me soon, and move away to a respectful distance, I shall be obliged to
do something on my own account."
"Go as far as yo' like, massa," returned the negro, unmoved. "I'se boun'
ter admit dat yo' done got me fo' curiosity. W'at yo' done think yo'
_can_ do?"
Plainly the negro meant to go on having sport with him. Tom decided that
it would be of no use to try to deceive this great mountain of black
flesh. So Reade, who had been doing some brisk thinking during the last
few moments, gave a sudden heave---a trick that he retained from the old
football days.
Much to Sambo's surprise he found himself going. Yet the black man was as
agile as he was big. He leaped to his feet, bounding one step sideways,
while Tom, who had been watching for this very chance, sprang to his own
feet.
"Not so fas', massa!" mocked the big black, reaching out and taking a
strong clutch on. Tom's coat collar.
Reade would have squirmed out of his coat and placed more distance between
them, but Mr. Ebony, with a stout twist, gathered the two ends of the coat
collar, holding the young engineer as though in the noose of a halter.
Quick as a flash Reade struck out with his right fist for the black man's
belt-line. Had the blow landed even the huge Sambo would have gone down
to earth. But the negro parried with his own disengaged fist, then gave
a twist to the coat collar noose that made Reade turn black in the face
from choking.
"Ah might as well tell yo'," Sambo observed dryly, "dat yo' ain't done
got no new fight tricks dat yo' can wish on me. Ah done seen all de
tricks of fightin' dat any man done know, an' Ah nebber yet seen no man
dat could put any kind oh a blow ober on me to hurt!"
The negro spoke boastfully, yet there could be no doubt that he believed
all he said.
Tom Reade next schemed to land a hard kick against the negro's shins. Ere
he had his foot well lifted, however, the watchful Sambo seemed to divine
the intent. He gave a quick twist at the coat collar that made Reade's
head swim. It was some time before the young engineer's head recovered
from that sudden confusion and blackness.
"Am' yo' gwine beliebe dat yo' kain't wish no kind oh a trick ober on me?"
demanded the black man in an injured tone. "Ah nebber seen no odder w'ite
man dat had such a ha'd time beliebing w'at Ah done tole him!"
"I've got to land this wicked brute, some way, or I may as well conclude
that the jig is danced through, as far as I am concerned," Reade thought
ruefully.
Panting, quivering, in dread of being choked again, and much harder, Tom
tried to think fast in the effort to devise some new plan for worsting
this terrible opponent.
"I've been fooling myself all along," Tom told himself, with a sinking
heart. "I've been up against several men who were too weak or too cowardly
to fight, and I've somehow gained the opinion that I could fight. But
this black fellow has taken all the conceit out of me. I was a fool ever
to think that I could fight! I'm nothing but a piece of jelly---or putty!"
Of a sudden Reade tried to wrench himself free at the collar, at the same
time raising his right knee with a forceful jerk. He wanted to drive that
knee into the black man's wind.
But Sambo seemed to guess the plan without trouble. He gave a twist that
choked Tom, once more, until all went black before him. Then the negro
slammed his victim down hard on the ground, well-nigh stunning the young
engineer.
"Ah done see w'at Ah gotta do wid yo'," Sambo announced. "Ah gotta tie
yo' up, load yo' pockets wid rocks, and den take yo' out in de Gulf ah'
lose yo'! Dat's w'at Ah gotta do, an' Ah ain' gwine lose no time about
it either."
Sambo was in earnest, too. He had mapped out that very course!