“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.”