“Now, Ozzie B., this is a monkey—the furst you've ever seed. He looks jes' like I told you—sorter like a man an' sorter like a nigger an' sorter like a groun' hog.”
“The pretties' thing I ever seed,” said Ozzie B., walking around and staring delightedly.
The crowd grew larger. It was a show Cottontown had never seen before.
Then two men came out of the bar-room—one, the bar-keeper, fat and jolly, and the other lank and with malicious eyes.
This gave Bonaparte his cue and he bristled and growled.
“Look out, mister,” said the tender-hearted Ozzie B. to the Italian, “watch this here dog, Bonaparte; he's terrible 'bout fightin'. He'll eat yo' monkey if he gets a chance.”
“Monk he noo 'fear'd ze dog,” grinned the Italian. “Monk he whup ze dog.”
“Vot's dat?” exclaimed Billy Buch—“Vot's dat, man, you say? Mine Gott, I bet ten to one dat Ponyparte eats him oop!”
To prove it Bonaparte ran at the monkey savagely. But the monkey ran up on the Italian's shoulder, where he grinned at the dog.
The Italian smiled. Then he ran his hand into a dirty leathern belt which he carried around his waist—and slowly counted out some gold coins. With a smile fresh as the skies of Italy, full of all sweetness, gentleness and suavity: