“I thought I saw Colossus,” answered the parson, with an anxious face; “I reckon ’twa’n’t him, though.”  And they went on.

The street they now entered was a very quiet one.  The eye of any chance passer would have been at once drawn to a broad, heavy, white brick edifice on the lower side of the way, with a flag-pole standing out like a bowsprit from one of its great windows, and a pair of lamps hanging before a large closed entrance.  It was a theatre, honey-combed with gambling-dens.  At this morning hour all was still, and the only sign of life was a knot of little barefoot girls gathered within its narrow shade, and each carrying an infant relative.  Into this place the parson and M. St.-Ange entered, the little nurses jumping up from the sills to let them pass in.

A half-hour may have passed.  At the end of that time the whole juvenile company were laying alternate eyes and ears to the chinks, to gather what they could of an interesting quarrel going on within.

“I did not, saw!  I given you no cause of offence, saw!  It’s not so, saw!  Mister Jools simply mistaken the house, thinkin’ it was a Sabbath-school!  No such thing, saw; I ain’t bound to bet!  Yes, I kin git out.  Yes, without bettin’!  I hev a right to my opinion; I reckon I’m a white man, saw!  No saw!  I on’y said I didn’t think you could get the game on them cards.  ’Sno such thing, saw!  I do not know how to play!  I wouldn’t hev a rascal’s money ef I should win it!  Shoot, ef you dare!  You can kill me, but you cayn’t scare me!  No, I shayn’t bet!  I’ll die first!  Yes, saw; Mr. Jools can bet for me if he admires to; I ain’t his mostah.”

Here the speaker seemed to direct his words to St.-Ange.

“Saw, I don’t understand you, saw.  I never said I’d loan you money to bet for me.  I didn’t suspicion this from you, saw.  No, I won’t take any more lemonade; it’s the most notorious stuff I ever drank, saw!”

M. St.-Ange’s replies were in falsetto and not without effect; for presently the parson’s indignation and anger began to melt.  “Don’t ask me, Jools, I can’t help you.  It’s no use; it’s a matter of conscience with me, Jools.”

“Mais oui! ‘tis a matt’ of conscien’ wid me, the same.”

“But, Jools, the money’s none o’ mine, nohow; it belongs to Smyrny, you know.”

“If I could make jus’ one bet,” said the persuasive St.-Ange, “I would leave this place, fas’-fas’, yes.  If I had thing—­mais I did not soupspicion this from you, Posson Jone’”—­

“Don’t, Jools, don’t!”

“No!  Posson Jone’.”

“You’re bound to win?” said the parson, wavering.

“Mais certainement! But it is not to win that I want;’tis me conscien’—­me honor!”

“Well, Jools, I hope I’m not a-doin’ no wrong.  I’ll loan you some of this money if you say you’ll come right out ‘thout takin’ your winnin’s.”