Short Stories for English Courses
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Various (Rosa M. R. Mikels ed.) >> Short Stories for English Courses
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"'I mus' see you home safe.'
"I 'clar, marster, I didn' know 'twuz Marse Chan's voice tell I
look at 'im right good. Well, she wouldn' let 'im go wid her. She
jes' wrap' her cloak 'roun' her shoulders, an' wen' 'long back by
herse'f, widout doin' more'n jes' look up once at Marse Chan
leanin' dyah 'g'inst de gate-pos' in he sodger clo's, wid he eyes
on de groun'. She said 'Good-bye' sort o' sorf, an' Marse Chan,
widout lookin' up, shake han's wid her, an' she wuz done gone down
de road. Soon ez she got 'mos' 'roun' de curve, Marse Chan he
followed her, keepin' under de trees so ez not to be seen, an' I
led de hosses on down de road behine 'im. He kep' 'long behine her
tell she wuz safe in de house, an' den he come an' got on he hoss,
an' we all come home.
"Nex' mawnin' we all come off to j'ine de army. An' dey wuz a-
drillin' an' a-drillin' all 'bout for a while, an' dey went 'long
wid all de res' o' de army, an' I went wid Marse Chan an' clean he
boots, an' look arfter de tent, an' tek keer o' him an' de hosses.
An' Marse Chan, he wan' a bit like he use' to be. He wuz so solumn
an' moanful all de time, at leas' 'cep' when dyah wuz gwine to be
a fight. Den he'd peartin' up, an' he alwuz rode at de head o' de
company, 'cause he wuz tall; an' hit wan' on'y in battles whar all
his company wuz dat he went, but he use' to volunteer whenever de
cun'l wanted anybody to fine out anythin', an' 'twuz so dangersome
he didn' like to mek one man go no sooner'n anurr, yo' know, an'
ax'd who'd volunteer. He 'peared to like to go prowlin' aroun'
'mong dem Yankees, an' he use' to tek me wid 'im whenever he
could. Yes, seh, he sut'n'y waz a good sodger! He didn' mine
bullets no more'n he did so many draps o' rain. But I use' to be
pow'ful skeered sometimes. It jes' use' to 'pear like fun to 'im.
In camp he use' to be so sorrerful he'd hardly open he mouf. You'd
'a' tho't he wuz seekin', he used to look so moanful; but jes' le'
'im git into danger, an' he use' to be like ole times--jolly an'
laughin' like when he wuz a boy.
"When Cap'n Gordon got he leg shot off, dey mek Marse Chan cap'n
on de spot, 'cause one o' de lieutenants got kilt de same day, an'
turr one (named Mr. Ronny) wan' no 'count, an' de company said
Marse Chan wuz de man.
"An' Marse Chan he wuz jes' de same. He didn' never mention Miss
Anne's name, but I knowed he wuz thinkin' on her constant. One
night he wuz settin' by de fire in camp, an' Mr. Ronny--he wuz de
secon' lieutenant--got to talkin' 'bout ladies, an' he say all
sorts o' things 'bout 'em, an' I see Marse Chan kinder lookin'
mad; an' de lieutenant mention Miss Anne's name. He had been
courtin' Miss Anne 'bout de time Marse Chan fit de duil wid her
pa, an' Miss Anne hed kicked 'im, dough he wuz mighty rich, 'cause
he warn' nuthin' but a half-strainer, an' 'cause she like Marse
Chan, I believe, dough she didn' speak to 'im; an' Mr. Ronny he
got drunk, an' 'cause Cun'l Chahmb'lin tole 'im not to come dyah
no more, he got mighty mad. An' dat evenin' I'se tellin' yo'
'bout, he wuz talkin', an' he mention' Miss Anne's name. I see
Marse Chan tu'n he eye 'roun' on 'im an' keep it on he face, and
pres'n'y Mr. Ronny said he wuz gwine hev some fun dyah yit. He
didn' mention her name dat time; but he said dey wuz all on 'em a
parecel of stuck-up 'risticrats, an' her pa wan' no gent'man
anyway, an'--I don' know what he wuz gwine say (he nuver said it),
fur ez he got dat far Marse Chan riz up an' hit 'im a crack, an'
he fall like he hed been hit wid a fence-rail. He challenged Marse
Chan to fight a duil, an' Marse Chan he excepted de challenge, an'
dey wuz gwine fight; but some on 'em tole 'im Marse Chan wan'
gwine mek a present o' him to his fam'ly, an' he got somebody to
bre'k up de duil; 'twan' nuthin' dough, but he wuz 'fred to fight
Marse Chan. An' purty soon he lef' de comp'ny.
"Well, I got one o' de gent'mens to write Judy a letter for me,
an' I tole her all 'bout de fight, an' how Marse Chan knock Mr.
Ronny over fur speakin' discontemptuous o' Cun'l Chahmb'lin, an' I
tole her how Marse Chan' wuz a-dyin' fur love o' Miss Anne. An'
Judy she gits Miss Anne to read de letter fur her. Den Miss Anne
she tells her pa, an'--you mind, Judy tells me all dis
arfterwards, an' she say when Cun'l Chahmb'lin hear 'bout it, he
wuz settin' on de poach, an' he set still a good while, an' den he
sey to hisse'f:
"'Well, he earn' he'p bein' a Whig.'
"An' den he gits up an' walks up to Miss Anne an' looks at her
right hard; an' Miss Anne she hed done tu'n away her haid an' wuz
makin' out she wuz fixin' a rosebush 'g'inst de poach; an' when
her pa kep' lookin' at her, her face got jes' de color o' de roses
on de bush, and pres'n'y her pa sez:
"'Anne!'
"An' she tu'ned roun', an' he sez:
"'Do yo' want 'im?'
"An' she sez, 'Yes,' an' put her head on he shoulder an' begin to
cry; an' he sez:
"'Well, I won' stan' between yo' no longer. Write to 'im an' say
so.'
"We didn' know nuthin' 'bout dis den. We wuz a-fightin' an' a-
fightin' all dat time; an' come one day a letter to Marse Chan,
an' I see 'im start to read it in his tent, an' he face hit look
so cu'ious, an' he han's trembled so I couldn' mek out what wuz de
matter wid 'im. An' he fol' de letter up an' wen' out an' wen' way
down 'hine de camp, an' stayed dyah 'bout nigh an hour. Well, seh,
I wuz on de lookout for 'im when he come back, an', fo' Gord, ef
he face didn' shine like a angel's! I say to myse'f, 'Um'm! ef de
glory o' Gord ain' done shine on 'im!' An' what yo' 'spose 'twuz?
"He tuk me wid 'im dat evenin', an' he tell me he hed done git a
letter from Miss Anne, an' Marse Chan he eyes look like gre't big
stars, an' he face wuz jes' like 'twuz dat mawnin' when de sun riz
up over de low groun', an' I see 'im stan'in' dyah wid de pistil
in he han', lookin' at it, an' not knowin' but what it mout be de
lars' time, an' he done mek up he mine not to shoot ole Cun'l
Chahmb'lin fur Miss Anne's sake, what writ 'im de letter.
"He fol' de letter wha' was in his han' up, an' put it in he
inside pocket--right dyar on de lef' side; an' den he tole me he
tho't mebbe we wuz gwine hev some warm wuk in de nex' two or th'ee
days, an' arfter dat ef Gord speared 'im he'd git a leave o'
absence fur a few days, an' we'd go home.
"Well, dat night de orders come, an' we all hed to git over to'ds
Romney; an' we rid all night till 'bout light; an' we halted right
on a little creek, an' we stayed dyah till mos' breakfas' time,
an' I see Marse Chan set down on de groun' 'hine a bush an' read
dat letter over an' over. I watch 'im, an' de battle wuz a-goin'
on, but we had orders to stay 'hine de hill, an' ev'y now an' den
de bullets would cut de limbs o' de trees right over us, an' one
o' dem big shells what goes 'Awhar--awhar--awhar!' would fall
right 'mong us; but Marse Chan he didn' mine it no mo'n nuthin'!
Den it 'peared to git closer an' thicker, and Marse Chan he calls
me, an' I crep' up, an' he sez:
"'Sam, we'se goin' to win in dis battle, an' den we'll go home an'
git married; an' I'se goin' home wid a star on my collar.' An' den
he sez, 'Ef I'm wounded, kyar me home, yo' hear?' An' I sez, 'Yes,
Marse Chan.'
"Well, jes' den dey blowed boots an' saddles, an' we mounted; an'
de orders come to ride 'roun' de slope, an' Marse Chan's comp'ny
wuz de secon', an' when we got 'roun' dyah, we wuz right in it.
Hit wuz de wust place ever dis nigger got in. An' dey said,
'Charge 'em!' an' my king! ef ever you see bullets fly, dey did
dat day. Hit wuz jes' like hail; an' we wen' down de slope (I
'long wid de res') an' up de hill right to'ds de cannons, an' de
fire wuz so strong dyar (dey hed a whole rigiment o' infintrys
layin' down dyar onder de cannons) our lines sort o' broke an'
stop; de cun'l was kilt, an' I b'lieve dey wuz jes' 'bout to bre'k
all to pieces, when Marse Chan rid up an' cotch hol' de fleg an'
hollers, 'Foller me!' an' rid strainin' up de hill 'mong de
cannons. I seen 'im when he went, de sorrel four good length ahead
o' ev'y urr hoss, jes' like he use' to be in a foxhunt, an' de
whole rigiment right arfter 'im. Yo' ain' nuver hear thunder! Fust
thing I knowed, de roan roll' head over heels an' flung me up
'g'inst de bank, like yo' chuck a nubbin over 'g'inst de foot o'
de corn pile. An' dat's what kep' me from bein' kilt, I 'spects.
Judy she say she think 'twuz Providence, but I think 'twuz de
bank. 0' co'se, Providence put de bank dyah, but how come
Providence nuver saved Marse Chan? When I look' 'roun', de roan
wuz layin' dyah by me, stone dead, wid a cannon-ball gone 'mos'
th'oo him, an' our men hed done swep' dem on t'urr side from de
top o' de hill. 'Twan' mo'n a minit, de sorrel come gallupin' back
wid his mane flyin', an' de rein hangin' down on one side to his
knee. 'Dyar!' says I, 'fo' Gord! I 'specks dey done kill Marse
Chan, an' I promised to tek care on him.'
"I jumped up an' run over de bank, an' dyar, wid a whole lot o'
dead men, an' some not dead yit, onder one o' de guns wid de fleg
still in he han', an' a bullet right th'oo he body, lay Marse
Chan. I tu'n 'im over an' call 'im, 'Marse Chan!' but 'twan' no
use, he wuz done gone home, sho' 'nuff. I pick' 'im up in my arms
wid de fleg still in he han's, an' toted 'im back jes' like I did
dat day when he wuz a baby, an' ole marster gin 'im to me in my
arms, an' sez he could trus' me, an' tell me to tek keer on 'im
long ez he lived. I kyar'd 'im 'way off de battlefiel' out de way
o' de balls, an' I laid 'im down onder a big tree till I could git
somebody to ketch de sorrel for me. He wuz cotched arfter a while,
an' I hed some money, so I got some pine plank an' made a coffin
dat evenin', an' wrapt Marse Chan's body up in de fleg, an' put
'im in de coffin; but I didn' nail de top on strong, 'cause I
knowed ole missis wan' see 'im; an' I got a' ambulance an' set out
for home dat night. We reached dyar de nex' evein', arfter
travellin' all dat night an' all nex' day.
"Hit 'peared like somethin' hed tole ole missis we wuz comin' so;
for when we got home she wuz waitin' for us--done drest up in her
best Sunday clo'es, an' stan'n' at de head o' de big steps, an'
ole marster settin' in his big cheer--ez we druv up de hill to'ds
de house, I drivin' de ambulance an' de sorrel leadin' 'long
behine wid de stirrups crost over de saddle.
"She come down to de gate to meet us. We took de coffin out de
ambulance an' kyar'd it right into de big parlor wid de pictures
in it, whar dey use' to dance in ole times when Marse Chan wuz a
schoolboy, an' Miss Anne Chahmb'lin use' to come over, an' go wid
ole missis into her charmber an' tek her things off. In dyar we
laid de coffin on two o' de cheers, an' ole missis nuver said a
wud; she jes' looked so ole an' white.
"When I had tell 'em all 'bout it, I tu'ned right 'roun' an' rid
over to Cun'l Chahmb'lin's, 'cause I knowed dat wuz what Marse
Chan he'd 'a' wanted me to do. I didn' tell nobody whar I wuz
gwine, 'cause yo' know none on 'em hadn' nuver speak to Miss Anne,
not sence de duil, an' dey didn' know 'bout de letter.
"When I rid up in de yard, dyar wuz Miss Anne a-stan'in' on de
poach watchin' me ez I rid up. I tied my hoss to de fence, an'
walked up de parf. She knowed by de way I walked dyar wuz
somethin' de motter, an' she wuz mighty pale. I drapt my cap down
on de een' o' de steps an' went up. She nuver opened her mouf;
jes' stan' right still an' keep her eyes on my face. Fust, I
couldn' speak; den I cotch my voice, an' I say, 'Marse Chan, he
done got he furlough.'
"Her face was mighty ashy, an' she sort o' shook, but she didn'
fall. She tu'ned 'roun' an' said, 'Git me de ker'ige!' Dat wuz
all.
"When de ker'ige come 'roun', she hed put on her bonnet, an' wuz
ready. Ez she got in, she sey to me, 'Hev yo' brought him home?'
an' we drove 'long, I ridin' behine.
"When we got home, she got out, an' walked up de big walk--up to
de poach by herse'f. Ole missis hed done fin' de letter in Marse
Chan's pocket, wid de love in it, while I wuz 'way, an' she wuz a-
waitin' on de poach. Dey sey dat wuz de fust time ole missis cry
when she find de letter, an' dat she sut'n'y did cry over it,
pintedly.
"Well, seh, Miss Anne she walks right up de steps, mos' up to ole
missis stan'in' dyar on de poach, an' jes' falls right down mos'
to her, on her knees fust, an' den flat on her face right on de
flo', ketchin' at ole missis' dress wid her two han's--so.
"Ole missis stood for 'bout a minit lookin' down at her, an' den
she drapt down on de flo' by her, an' took her in bofe her arms.
"I couldn' see, I wuz cryin' so myse'f, an' ev'ybody wuz cryin'.
But dey went in arfter a while in de parlor, an' shet de do'; an'
I heahd 'em say, Miss Anne she tuk de coffin in her arms an'
kissed it, an' kissed Marse Chan, an' call 'im by his name, an'
her darlin', an' ole missis lef' her cryin' in dyar tell some on
'em went in, an' found her done faint on de flo'.
"Judy (she's my wife) she tell me she heah Miss Anne when she axed
ole missis mout she wear mo'nin' fur 'im. I don' know how dat is;
but when we buried 'im nex' day, she wuz de one whar walked arfter
de coffin, holdin' ole marster, an' ole missis she walked next to
'em.
"Well, we buried Marse Chan dyar in de ole grabeyard, wid de fleg
wrapped roun' 'im, an' he face lookin' like it did dat mawnin'
down in de low groun's, wid de new sun shinin' on it so peaceful.
"Miss Anne she nuver went home to stay arfter dat; she stay wid
ole marster an' ole missis ez long ez dey lived. Dat warn' so
mighty long, 'cause ole marster he died dat fall, when dey wuz
fallerin' fur wheat--I had jes' married Judy den--an' ole missis
she warn' long behine him. We buried her by him next summer. Miss
Anne she went in de hospitals toreckly arfter ole missis died; an'
jes' fo' Richmond fell she come home sick wid de fever. Yo' nuver
would 'a' knowed her fur de same ole Miss Anne. She wuz light ez a
piece o' peth, an' so white, 'cep' her eyes an' her sorrel hyar,
an' she kep' on gittin' whiter an' weaker. Judy she sut'n'y did
nuss her faithful. But she nuver got no betterment! De fever an'
Marse Chan's bein' kilt hed done strain her, an' she died jes' fo'
de folks wuz sot free.
"So we buried Miss Anne right by Marse Chan, in a place whar ole
missis hed tole us to leave, an' dey's bofe on 'em sleep side by
side over in de ole grabeyard at home.
"An' will yo' please tell me, marster? Dey tells me dat de Bible
sey dyar won' be marryin' nor givin' in marriage in heaven, but I
don' b'lieve it signifies dat--does you?"
I gave him the comfort of my earnest belief in some other
interpretation, together with several spare "eighteen-pences," as
he called them, for which he seemed humbly grateful. And as I rode
away I heard him calling across the fence to his wife, who was
standing in the door of a small whitewashed cabin, near which we
had been standing for some time:
"Judy, have Marse Chan's dawg got home?"
"POSSON JONE"
BY GEORGE W. CABLE
Bliss Perry mentions this story as one that presents "people and
events and circumstances, blended into an artistic whole that
defies analysis." It illustrates dramatic incident, local color,
and complex character analysis.
"POSSON JONE'"
[Footnote: From "Old Creole Days," by George W. Cable. Copyright,
1890, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]
To Jules St.-Ange--elegant little heathen--there yet remained at
manhood a remembrance of having been to school, and of having been
taught by a stony-headed Capuchin that the world is round--for
example, like a cheese. This round world is a cheese to be eaten
through, and Jules had nibbled quite into his cheese-world already
at twenty-two.
He realized this as he idled about one Sunday morning where the
intersection of Royal and Conti streets some seventy years ago
formed a central corner of New Orleans. Yes, yes, the trouble was
he had been wasteful and honest. He discussed the matter with that
faithful friend and confidant, Baptiste, his yellow body-servant.
They concluded that, papa's patience and tante's pin money having
been gnawed away quite to the rind, there were left open only
these few easily enumerated resorts: to go to work--they
shuddered; to join Major Innerarity's filibustering expedition; or
else--why not?--to try some games of confidence. At twenty-two one
must begin to be something. Nothing else tempted; could that
avail? One could but try. It is noble to try; and, besides, they
were hungry. If one could "make the friendship" of some person
from the country, for instance, with money, not expert at cards or
dice, but, as one would say, willing to learn, one might find
cause to say some "Hail Marys."
The sun broke through a clearing sky, and Baptiste pronounced it
good for luck. There had been a hurricane in the night. The weed-
grown tile-roofs were still dripping, and from lofty brick and low
adobe walls a rising steam responded to the summer sunlight.
Upstreet, and across the Rue du Canal, one could get glimpses of
the gardens in Faubourg Ste.-Marie standing in silent
wretchedness, so many tearful Lucretias, tattered victims of the
storm. Short remnants of the wind now and then came down the
narrow street in erratic puffs heavily laden with odors of broken
boughs and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools of rain-water in
the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and suddenly went away to
nothing, like a juggler's butterflies or a young man's money.
It was very picturesque, the Rue Royale. The rich and poor met
together. The locksmith's swinging key creaked next door to the
bank; across the way, crouching, mendicant-like, in the shadow of
a great importing-house, was the mud laboratory of the mender of
broken combs. Light balconies overhung the rows of showy shops and
stores open for trade this Sunday morning, and pretty Latin faces
of the higher class glanced over their savagely pronged railings
upon the passers below. At some windows hung lace curtains,
flannel duds at some, and at others only the scraping and sighing
one-hinged shutter groaning toward Paris after its neglectful
master.
M. St.-Ange stood looking up and down the street for nearly an
hour. But few ladies, only the inveterate mass-goers, were out.
About the entrance of the frequent cafes the masculine gentility
stood leaning on canes, with which now one and now another
beckoned to Jules, some even adding pantomimic hints of the social
cup.
M. St.-Ange remarked to his servant without turning his head that
somehow he felt sure he should soon return those bons that the
mulatto had lent him.
"What will you do with them?"
"Me!" said Baptiste, quickly; "I will go and see the bull-fight in
the Place Congo."
"There is to be a bull-fight? But where is M. Cayetano?"
"Ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado. Instead of his
circus, they are to have a bull-fight--not an ordinary bull-fight
with sick horses, but a buffalo-and-tiger fight. I would not miss
it--"
Two or three persons ran to the opposite corner, and commenced
striking at something with their canes. Others followed. Can M.
St.-Ange and servant, who hasten forward--can the Creoles, Cubans,
Spaniards, San Domingo refugees, and other loungers--can they hope
it is a fight? They hurry forward. Is a man in a fit? The crowd
pours in from the side-streets. Have they killed a so-long snake?
Bareheaded shopmen leave their wives, who stand upon chairs. The
crowd huddles and packs. Those on the outside make little leaps
into the air, trying to be tall.
"What is the matter?"
"Have they caught a real live rat?"
"Who is hurt?" asks some one in English.
"Personne," replies a shopkeeper; "a man's hat blow' in the
gutter; but he has it now. Jules pick' it. See, that is the man,
head and shoulders on top the res'."
"He in the homespun?" asks a second shopkeeper. "Humph! an
Americain--a West-Floridian; bah!"
"But wait; 'st! he is speaking; listen!"
"To who is he speak--?"
"Sh-sh-sh! to Jules."
"Jules who?"
"Silence, you! To Jules St.-Ange, what howe me a bill since long
time. Sh-sh-sh!"
Then the voice was heard.
Its owner was a man of giant stature, with a slight stoop in his
shoulders, as if he was making a constant, good-natured attempt to
accommodate himself to ordinary doors and ceilings. His bones were
those of an ox. His face was marked more by weather than age, and
his narrow brow was bald and smooth. He had instantaneously formed
an opinion of Jules St.-Ange, and the multitude of words, most of
them lingual curiosities, with which he was rasping the wide-open
ears of his listeners, signified, in short, that, as sure as his
name was Parson Jones, the little Creole was a "plum gentleman."
M. St.-Ange bowed and smiled, and was about to call attention, by
both gesture and speech, to a singular object on top of the still
uncovered head, when the nervous motion of the Americain
anticipated him, as, throwing up an immense hand, he drew down a
large roll of bank-notes. The crowd laughed, the West-Floridian
joining, and began to disperse.
"Why, that money belongs to Smyrny Church," said the giant.
"You are very dengerous to make your money expose like that, Misty
Posson Jone'," said St.-Ange, counting it with his eyes.
The countryman gave a start and smile of surprise.
"How d'dyou know my name was Jones?" he asked; but, without
pausing for the Creole's answer, furnished in his reckless way
some further specimens of West-Floridian English; and the
conciseness with which he presented full intelligence of his home,
family, calling, lodging-house, and present and future plans,
might have passed for consummate art, had it not been the most
run-wild nature. "And I've done been to Mobile, you know, on
busiNESS for Bethesdy Church. It's the on'yest time I ever been
from home; now you wouldn't of believed that, would you? But I
admire to have saw you, that's so. You've got to come and eat with
me. Me and my boy ain't been fed yit. What might one call yo'
name? Jools? Come on, Jools. Come on, Colossus. That's my niggah--
his name's Colossus of Rhodes. Is that yo' yallah boy, Jools!
Fetch him along, Colossus. It seems like a special proviDENCE.-
Jools, do you believe in a special proviDENCE?"
Jules said he did.
The new-made friends moved briskly off, followed by Baptiste and a
short, square, old negro, very black and grotesque, who had
introduced himself to the mulatto, with many glittering and
cavernous smiles, as "d'body-sarvant of d'Rev'n' Mr. Jones."
Both pairs enlivened their walk with conversation. Parson Jones
descanted upon the doctrine he had mentioned, as illustrated in
the perplexities of cotton-growing, and concluded that there would
always be "a special proviDENCE again' cotton untell folks quits
a-pressin' of it and haulin' of it on Sundays!"
"Je dis," said St.-Ange, in response, "I thing you is juz right. I
believe, me, strong-strong in the improvidence, yes. You know my
papa he hown a sugah-plantation, you know. 'Jules, me son,' he say
one time to me, 'I goin' to make one baril sugah to fedge the moze
high price in New Orleans.' Well, he take his bez baril sugah--I
nevah see a so careful man like me papa always to make a so
beautiful sugah et sirop. 'Jules, go at Father Pierre an' ged this
lill pitcher fill with holy-water, an' tell him sen' his tin
bucket, and I will make it fill with quitte.' I ged the holy-
water; my papa sprinkle it over the baril, an' make one cross on
the 'ead of the baril."
"Why, Jools," said Parson Jones, "that didn't do no good."
"Din do no good! Id broughd the so great value! You can strike me
dead if thad baril sugah din fedge the more high cost than any
other in the city. Parce-que, the man what buy that baril sugah he
make a mistake of one hundred pound "--falling back--"Mais
certainlee!"'
"And you think that was growin' out of the holy-water?" asked the
parson.
"Mais, what could make it else? Id could not be the quitte,
because my papa keep the bucket, an' forget to sen' the quitte to
Father Pierre."
Parson Jones was disappointed.
"Well, now, Jools, you know, I don't think that was right. I
reckon you must be a plum Catholic."
M. St.-Ange shrugged. He would not deny his faith.
"I am a Catholique, mais"--brightening as he hoped to recommend
himself anew--"not a good one."
"Well, you know," said Jones--"where's Colossus? Oh! all right.
Colossus strayed off a minute in Mobile, and I plum lost him for
two days. Here's the place; come in. Colossus and this boy can go
to the kitchen.--Now, Colossus, what AIR you a-beckonin' at me
faw?"
He let his servant draw him aside and address him in a whisper.
"Oh, go 'way!" said the parson with a jerk. "Who's goin' to throw
me? What? Speak louder. Why, Colossus, you shayn't talk so, saw.
'Pon my soul, you're the mightiest fool I ever taken up with. Jest
you go down that alley-way with this yalla boy, and don't show yo'
face untell yo' called!"
The negro begged; the master wrathily insisted.
"Colossus, will you do ez I tell you, or shell I hev to strike
you, saw?"
"O Mahs Jimmy, I--I's gwine; but"--he ventured nearer--"don't on
no account drink nothin', Mahs Jimmy."
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