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.
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