pon the damp board, continued:

"As a p'inciple I discredits de imbimin' of awjus liquors. De imbimin'
of awjus liquors, de wiolution of de Sabbaf, de playin' of de fiddle,
and de usin' of by-words, dey is de fo' sins of de conscience; an' if
any man sin de fo' sins of de conscience, de debble done sharp his fork
fo' dat man.--Ain't that so, boss?"

The grocer was sure it was so.

"Neberdeless, mind you"--here the orator brimmed his glass from the
bottle and swallowed the contents with a dry eye--"mind you, a roytious
man, sech as ministers of de gospel and dere body-sarvants, can take a
_leetle_ for de weak stomach."

But the fascinations of Colossus's eloquence must not mislead us; this
is the story of a true Christian; to wit, Parson Jones.

The parson and his new friend ate. But the coffee M. St.-Ange declared
he could not touch; it was too wretchedly bad. At the French Market,
near by, there was some noble coffee. This, however, would have to be
bought, and Parson Jones had scruples.

"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! I am a _Catholique_, you is a _schismatique_; you thing it
is wrong to dring some coffee--well, then, it _is_ wrong; you thing it
is wrong to make the sugah to ged the so large price--well, then, it
_is_ wrong; I thing it is right--well, then, it is right; it is all
'abit; _c'est tout_. What a man thing is right, _is right_; 'tis all
'abit. A man muz nod go again' his conscien'. My faith! do you thing I
would go again' my conscien'? _Mais allons_, led us go and ged some
coffee."

"Jools."

"W'at?"

"Jools, it ain't the drinkin' of coffee, but the buyin' of it on a
Sabbath. You must really excuse me, Jools, it's again' conscience, you
know."

"Ah!" said St.-Ange, "_c'est_ very true. For you it would be a sin,
_mais_ for me it is only 'abit. 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."

"Why, Jools, my dear friend, you know," said the shamefaced parson, "I
never visit on Sundays."

"Never w'at?" asked the astounded Creole.

"No," said Jones, smiling awkwardly.