There was no
mistaking this black man. He well remembered his face, and even the tones
of his voice. He had never heard him sing, but he had heard him howl, and
it seemed almost impossible that he should meet him in Paris. And yet, he
was sure that the man who was bellowing and bawling to the delight of the
guests of the Black Cat was one of the African wretches who had been
entrapped and enslaved by the Rackbirds.
But if Banker had been astonished by Mok, he was utterly amazed and
confounded when, some five minutes later, the door of the brasserie was
suddenly opened, and another of the slaves of the Rackbirds, with whose
face he was also perfectly familiar, hurriedly entered.
Cheditafa, who had been sent on an errand that evening, had missed Mok
on his return. Ralph was away in Brussels with the professor, so that
his valet, having most of his time on his hands, had thought to take a
holiday during Cheditafa's absence, and had slipped off to the Black
Cat, whose pleasures he had surreptitiously enjoyed before, but never to
such an extent as on this occasion. Cheditafa knew he had been there,
and when he started out to look for him, it was to the Black Cat that he
went first.
Before he had quite reached the door, Cheditafa had been shocked and
angered to hear his favorite hymn sung in a beer-shop by that reprobate
and incompetent Mok, and he had rushed in, and in a minute seized the
blatant vocalist by the collar, and ordered him instantly to shut his
mouth and pay his reckoning.
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