y Lan'! but dats a piece,
dat Gregor," Aunt Belindy enunciated between paroxysms of laughter,
seating herself with her fat arms resting on her knees, and her whole
bearing announcing pleased anticipation.

"Dat boy neva did have no car' fur de salvation o' his soul," groaned
Uncle Hiram.

"W'at he ben a doin' yonda?" demanded Aunt Belindy impatiently.

"Well," said Pierson, assuming a declamatory air and position in the
middle of the large kitchen, "he lef' heah--w'at time he lef heah,
Aunt B'lindy?"

"He done lef' fo' dinna, 'caze I seed 'im a lopin' to'ads de riva,
time I flung dat Sampson boy out o' de doo', bringin' dem greens in
heah 'dout washin' of 'em."

"Dat's so; it war good dinna time w'en he come a lopin' in town. Dat
hoss look like he ben swimmin' in Cane Riva, he done ride him so hard.
He fling he se'f down front o' Grammont's sto' an' he come a stompin'
in, look like gwine hu't somebody. Ole Grammont tell him, 'How you
come on, Gregor? Come ova tu de house an' eat dinna wid us: de ladies
be pleas tu see you.' "

"Humph," muttered Aunt Belindy, "dem Grammont gals be glad to see any
t'ing dat got breeches on; lef 'lone good lookin' piece like dat
Gregor."

"Gregor, he neva sey, 'Tank you dog,' jis' fling he big dolla down on
de counta an' 'low 'don't want no dinna: gimme some w'iskey.' "

"Yas, yas, Lord," from Aunt Belindy.

"Ole Grammont, he push de bottle to'ads 'im, an' I 'clar to Goodness
ef he didn' mos fill dat tumbla to de brim, an' drink it down, neva
blink a eye. Den he tu'n an treat ev'y las' w'ite man stan'in' roun';
dat ole kiarpenta man; de blacksmif; Marse Verdon. He keep on a
treatin'; Grammont, he keep a handin' out de w'iskey; Gregor he keep
on a drinkin' an a treatin'--Grammont, he keep a handin' out; don't
make no odds tu him s'long uz dat bring de money in de draw. I ben a
stan'in' out on de gallery, me, a peekin' in. An' Gregor, he cuss and
swar an' he kiarry on, an 'low he want play game poka. Den dey all
goes a trompin' in de back room an' sets down roun' de table, an' I
comes a creepin' in, me, whar I kin look frough de doo', an dar dey
sets an' plays an Gregor, he drinks w'iskey an' he wins de money. An'
arta w'ile Marse Verdon, he little eyes blinkin', he 'low', 'y' all
had a shootin' down tu Place-du-Bois, _hein_ Gregor?' Gregor, he neva
say nuttin': he jis' draw he pistol slow out o' he pocket an' lay it
down on de table; an' he look squar in Marse Verdon eyes. Man!