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."