"Seventy-five!"
The answer was an invitation to go away and let the owner alone, as he was, in certain specified respects, the vilest of living creatures, and no company for a fine gentyman.
The "fine gentyman" longed to blaspheme—but before old Charlie!—in the name of pride, how could he? He mounted and started away.
"Tell you what I'll make wid you," said Charlie.
The other, guessing aright, turned back without dismounting, smiling.
"How much Belles Demoiselles hoes me now?" asked the deaf one.
"One hundred and eighty thousand dollars," said the Colonel, firmly.
"Yass," said Charlie. "I don't want Belle Demoiselles."
The old Colonel's quiet laugh intimated it made no difference either way.
"But me," continued Charlie, "me,—I'm got le Compte De Charleu's blood in me, any'ow,—a litt' bit, any'ow, ain't it?"