“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 busi_ness_ 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 provi_dence_.—­Jools, do you believe in a special provi_dence?_”

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.”