"_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.
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