Jan of the Jungle

Otis Adelbert Kline

Novel | English | 21/03/14


Dr. Bracken suavely bowed his Florida cracker patient out of his
dispensary. It was in the smaller right wing of his rambling ancestral
home on a hummock in the Everglades, near the Gulf of Mexico and five
miles from Citrus Crossing.
The doctor cursed under his breath as a sudden uproar came from the
larger right wing of the house, directly behind him. This wing, a place

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double- locked and forbidden even to his two old colored servants, had
no entrance save through a narrow passageway that connected it with
his private office in the smaller wing.
So far as his servants, Aunt Jenny and Uncle Henry, were concerned, a
lock was superfluous. The muffled animal-like sounds that came from it
were so strange and unearthly that they regarded them with
superstitious awe.
As he closed the door behind his patient it seemed that a mask suddenly
slipped from the doctor's face, so swift and horrible was the change that
came over his features. He had been smiling and suave, but as be turned
away from the door his demeanor was more like that of a frenzied
madman. His teeth, bared like those of a jungle beast at bay, gleamed
white and menacing against the iron-gray of his closely cropped
vandyke. His small, deep-set eyes burned malevolently, madly.

Jan of the Jungle
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