“Thar, now! Why, Colossus, you most of been dosted with sumthin’; yo’ plum crazy.—Humph, come on Jools; let’s eat! Humph! to tell me that when I never taken a drop, exceptin’ for chills, in my life—which he knows so as well as me!”

The two masters began to ascend a stair.

“Mais, he is a sassy; I would sell him, me,” said the young Creole.

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” replied the parson; “though there is people in Bethesdy who says he is a rascal. He’s a powerful smart fool. Why, that boy’s got money, Jools; more money than religion, I reckon. I’m shore he fallen into mighty bad company” —they passed beyond earshot.

Baptiste and Colossus, instead of going to the tavern kitchen, passed to the next door and entered the dark rear corner of a low grocery, where, the law notwithstanding, liquor was covertly sold to slaves. There, in the quiet company of Baptiste and the grocer, the colloquial powers of Colossus, which were simply prodigious, began very soon to show themselves.

“For whilst,” said he, “Mahs Jimmy has eddication, you know—whilst he has eddication, I has ’scretion. He has eddication and I has ’scretion, an’ so we gits along.”

He drew a black bottle down the counter, and, laying half his length upon the damp board, continued:

“As a p’inciple I discredits de imbimin’ of awjus liquors. De imbimin’ of awjus liquors, de wiolution of de Sabbas, de playin’ of de fiddle, and de usin’ of bywords, dey is de fo’ sins of de conscience; an’ if any man sins de fo’ sins of de conscience, de debble done sharp his fork fo’ dat man. Ain’t that so, boss?”

The grocer was sure it was so.

“Neberdeless, mind you”—here the orator brimmed his glass from the bottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye—“mind you, a roytious man, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body sarvants, can take a leetle for de weak stomach.”

But the fascinations of Colossus’ eloquence must not mislead us; this is the story of a true Christian, to wit, Parson Jones.

The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee M. St.-Ange declared he could not touch; it was too wretchedly bad. At the French Market, near by, there was some noble coffee. This, however, would have to be bought, and Parson Jones had scruples.

“You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which it does so in—”

“Oh yes!” cried St.-Ange, “conscien’; thad is the bez, Posson Jone’. Certainlee! I am a Catholique, you is a schismatique; you thing it is wrong to dring some coffee—well, then, it is wrong; you thing it is wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price—well, then, it is wrong; I think it is right—well, then, it is right; it is all ’abit; c’est tout. What a man thing is right, is right; ’tis all ’abit. A man muz nod go again’ his conscien’. My faith! do you thing I would go again’ my conscien’? Mais allons, led us go and ged some coffee.”

“Jools.”

“W’at?”

“Jools, it ain’ the drinkin’ of coffee, but the buyin’ of it on a Sabbath. You must really excuse me Jools, it’s again’ conscience, you know.”