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Updated: June 24, 2025
O Jools, if you'll look him out for me, I'll never forget you I'll never forget you, nohow, Jools. No, Jools, I never will believe he taken that money. Yes, I know all niggahs will steal" he set foot upon the gang-plank "but Colossus wouldn't steal from me. Good-by." "Misty Posson Jone," said St.-Ange, putting his hand on the parson's arm with genuine affection, "hol' on.
"Now," said he, still tarrying, "this is jest the way; had I of gone to church" "Posson Jone'," said Jules. "What?" "I tell you. We goin' to church!" "Will you?" asked Jones, joyously. "Allons, come along," said Jules, taking his elbow. They walked down the Rue Chartres, passed several corners, and by and by turned into a cross street.
"You see, Jools, every man has his conscience to guide him, which it does so in " "Oh, yes!" cried St.-Ange, "conscien'; thad is the bez, Posson Jone'. Certainlee!
Rilligion is a very strange; I know a man one time, he thing it was wrong to go to cock-fight Sunday evening. I thing it is all 'abit. Mais, come, Posson Jone'; I have got one friend, Miguel; led us go at his house and ged some coffee. Come; Miguel have no familie; only him and Joe always like to see friend; allons, led us come yonder."
Hah! you is the moz brave dat I never see, mais ad the same time the moz rilligious man. Where I'm goin' to fin' one priest to make like dat? Mais, why you can't cheer up an' be 'appy? Me, if I should be miserabl' like that I would kill meself." The countryman only shook his head. "Bien, Posson Jone', I have the so good news for you." The prisoner looked up with eager inquiry.
"I don' know w'ere mais he is wid Baptiste. Baptiste is a beautiful to take care of somebody." "Is he as good as you, Jools?" asked Parson Jones, sincerely. Jules was slightly staggered. "You know, Posson Jone', you know, a nigger cannot be good as a w'ite man mais Baptiste is a good nigger." The parson moaned and dropped his chin into his hands.
"Mais, it was!" "No!" "It WAS me fault! I SWEAR it was me fault! Mais, here is five hondred dollar'; I wish you shall take it. Here! I don't got no use for money. Oh, my faith! Posson Jone', you must not begin to cry some more" Parson Jones was choked with tears.
In "Posson Jone," an awkward camp-meeting country preacher is the victim of a vulgar confidence game; the scenes are the street, a drinking-place, a gambling-saloon, a bull-ring, and a calaboose; there is not a "respectable" character in it. Where shall we look for a more faithful picture of low life? Where shall we find another so vividly set forth in all its sordid details?
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