“I billieve you, seh. You ah lookin’ well.”
Narcisse thrust his hands into his pockets, and turned upon the outer sides of his feet, the embodiment of sweet temper. Richling found him a wonderful relief at the moment. He quit gnawing his lip and winking into vacancy, and felt a malicious good-humor run into all his veins.
“I dunno ’ow ’tis, Mistoo Itchlin,” said Narcisse, “but I muz tell you the tooth; you always ’ave to me the appe’ance ligue the chile of p’ospe’ity.”
“Eh?” said Richling, hollowing his hand at his ear,—“child of”—
“P’ospe’ity?”
“Yes—yes,” replied the deaf man vaguely, “I—have a relative of that name.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the Creole, “thass good faw luck! Mistoo Itchlin, look’ like you a lil mo’ hawd to yeh—but egscuse me. I s’pose you muz be advancing in business, Mistoo Itchlin. I say I s’pose you muz be gittin’ along!”
“I? Yes; yes, I must.”
He started.