The truth, in this case, was a secondary matter to Charlie; the main point was to give a pleasing answer.  So he nodded his head decidedly, as who should say—­“Oh yes, we did, it was a bona-fide swap!” but when he saw the smile vanish, he tried the other expedient and shook his head with still more vigor, to signify that they had not so much as approached a bargain; and the smile returned.

Charlie wanted to see the vine recognized.  He stepped backward to the window with a broad smile, shook the foliage, nodded and looked smart.

“I know,” said the Colonel, with beaming eyes,”—­many weeks.”

The next day—­

“Charl—­”

The best ear went down.

“Send for a priest.”

The priest came, and was alone with him a whole afternoon.  When he left, the patient was very haggard and exhausted, but smiled and would not suffer the crucifix to be removed from his breast.

One more morning came.  Just before dawn Charlie, lying on a pallet in the room, thought he was called, and came to the bedside.

“Old man,” whispered the failing invalid, “is it caving yet?”

Charlie nodded.

“It won’t pay you out.”

“Oh, dat makes not’ing,” said Charlie.  Two big tears rolled down his brown face.  “Dat makes not’in.”

The Colonel whispered once more: 

“Mes belles demoiselles! in paradise;—­in the garden—­I shall be with them at sunrise;” and so it was.

“POSSON JONE’.” [1]

[Footnote 1:  Published in Appletons’ Journal.  Republished by permission.]

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.”