"Ah jes' wants to catch any ol' corpses trapesin' 'round mah
kitchin, trackin' up mah clean flo', an Ah 'll suah settle day hash
once fo' all!" trumpeted Mary Magdalen.
Outside, Schmetz was jumping up and down, flapping his arms, and
screaming in voluble French:
"Name of a dog! Senseless Senegambians, remain! Iron-skulled
offspring of the union of a black mule and a pickax, cease to fly!"
"What is the matter? For heaven's sake? what is the matter?" I
shouted.
"We done dig up de corpses! We done fin' wha'h dat ol' witch 'oman
bury de bodies!" howled a workman in reply.
"Imbeciles, asses, beings without brains, listen to me!" shrieked
Schmetz, this time in good English. "This corpse is not alive! Never
yet was he alive! Return, sons of perdition, and assist me to raise
him--may he fall upon your brain-pans of donkeys!"
As if that had been all that was needed, the last wavering workman
flung down his shovel and took to his heels, running like a rabbit
and roaring as he ran.
"Schmetz!" called a clear and peremptory voice. "Schmetz! what's the
matter over there?"
"Ah! It is Monsieur Jelnik!" bawled Schmetz. "_Nom de Dieu_,
Monsieur Jelnik, come with a great quickness! I have dug from the
earth the leetle boy of stone--you know him, _hein_? Those niggers,
_sacrement_! they think they have uncovered the deceased corpse, the
victim of Madame the late mistress, with which she made her spells
of a sorceress.
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