I'll loan you some of
this money if you say you'll come right out 'thout takin' your
winnin's."
All was still. The peeping children could see the parson as he lifted
his hand to his breast-pocket. There it paused a moment in bewilderment,
then plunged to the bottom. It came back empty, and fell lifelessly at
his side. His head dropped upon his breast, his eyes were for a moment
closed, his broad palms were lifted and pressed against his forehead, a
tremor seized him, and he fell all in a lump to the floor. The children
ran off with their infant-loads, leaving Jules St.-Ange swearing by all
his deceased relatives, first to Miguel and Joe, and then to the lifted
parson, that he did not know what had become of the money "except if"
the black man had got it.
In the rear of ancient New Orleans, beyond the sites of the old rampart,
a trio of Spanish forts, where the town has since sprung up and grown
old, green with all the luxuriance of the wild Creole summer, lay the
Congo Plains. Here stretched the canvas of the historic Cayetano, who
Sunday after Sunday sowed the sawdust for his circus-ring.
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