"Bien, Posson Jone', I have the so good news for you."
The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry.
"Las' evening when they lock' you, I come right off at M. De Blanc's house to get you let out of de calaboose; M. De Blanc he is the judge. So soon I was entering—'Ah! Jules, me boy, juz the man to make complete the game!' Posson Jone', it was a specious providence! I win in t'ree hours more dan six hundred dollah! Look." He produced a mass of bank-notes, bons, and due-bills.
"And you got the pass?" asked the parson, regarding the money with a sadness incomprehensible to Jules.
"It is here; it take the effect so soon the daylight."
"Jools, my friend, your kindness is in vain."
The Creole's face became a perfect blank.
"Because," said the parson, "for two reasons: firstly, I have broken the laws, and ought to stand the penalty; and secondly—you must really excuse me, Jools, you know, but the pass has been got onfairly, I'm afeerd. You told the judge I was innocent; and in neither case it don't become a Christian (which I hope I can still say I am one) to 'do evil that good may come.' I muss stay."
M. St.-Ange stood up aghast, and for a moment speechless, at this exhibition of moral heroism; but an artifice was presently hit upon. "Mais, Posson Jone'!"—in his old falsetto—"de order—you cannot read it, it is in French—compel you to go hout, sir!"
"Is that so?" cried the parson, bounding up with radiant face—"is that so, Jools?"