“Old Injin Charlie is a low-down dog.”
“C’est vrai, oui,” retorted the colonel in an undertone.
“He’s got Injin blood in him.”
The colonel nodded assent.
“But he’s got some blame’ good blood, too, ain’t it?”
The colonel nodded impatiently.
“Bien. Old Charlie’s Injin blood says, ‘Sell the house, Charlie, you blame’ old fool!’ Mais, old Charlie’s good blood says, ‘Charlie, if you sell that old house, Charlie, you low-down old dog, Charlie, what de Comte De Charleu make for you’ grace-gran’muzzer, de dev’ can eat you, Charlie, I don’t care.’”
“But you’ll sell it, anyhow, won’t you, old man?”
“No!” And the no rumbled off in muttered oaths like thunder out on the gulf. The incensed old colonel wheeled and started off.
“Curl!” [“Colonel”] said Charlie, standing up unsteadily.