" 'I'm riddy to be as frank as the nixt wan if 't will spare me annything I don't want,' says I, dilicate-like, not mentionun' their little shootun'-parthy on Sunday.

"And thin he towld us the plan.

'The trisury is exhaustud,' says he; 'we have no money at all, and the claims for damages done by the fleet thot night is tin times gr-reater nor the fleet is worth. Señores, ye see the unjustus of our payun' thim whin the har-rm was all done in a way by Gomez himself, the arch-thraitor? But if the señor will swear he was operatun' the fleet for Gomez at the time, and the fleet sh'u'd aftherwards be found in Gomez's possission, will he not be responsible for thim claims? 'T w'u'd be a case for the courts, annyway,' says he; ''t is worth tryun'.'

"'Ut is all very interestun',' says William J. Stanton; 'but, Señor, the pomps and vanithies of the wor-rld, and even uts law-suits, are little to us. We 're thinkun' more of your little entertainmint for us on Sunday. And what about thot?'

"I was just comun' to thot,' says he. 'Now, 't is known thot the city is full of Gomez's spies; me own brither may be wan, I don't know. There's no depindun' on anny wan. So what is more likely than thot some of thim even in the fort here sh'u'd open the door of your room to-night whin we loyal min are sleepun' peaceful', and conduct ye to the fleet, now lyun' off in the harbor again? The steam is up. 'T is the custhom on war-ships, I understand. Gomez is at Punta Gorda, fifty miles down the coast. But the señor knows thot, I believe,' says he, bowing to William J. Stanton.

'And so we agreed to his plan, and he wint away. And airly in the marnun' before light two min in masks opened our door and tiptoed us down to a boat thot was waitun' for us, and they took us off to the fleet. Four min who'd been captured from Gomez were aboard for engineers and coal-passers, and shlippun' our cable at wance, we wint away at halfspeed, wid the three war-ships lashed abreast as before, but only the middle wan undher steam. And no wan shtopped

66

''Our boat 's astern yet,' says William J. Stanton. 'We 'll drop into her quiutlike and get picked up by the tramp.'

"And where is she bound?' says I. "'What matther?' says he.. 'Ut 's not to Gomez, unliss she 's steamun' stern first.'

"He putt the wheel a bit to starboard, catchun' a spoke in the becket, and thin called down to the engine-room for more steam. We heard thim shovelun' on coal whin we dropped in our boat and cast off, and whin, fifteen minut's later, we wint over the side of the tramp, the fleet was shtill turnun' in towards the land, and no wan in sight on the decks. Sometimes I've wondhered where ut fetched up and who paid thim damages."

trophe took place 'cross de riv' from my lan', de river, she twis' 'erself suddenly an' begin to chew de bank 'cross from my pointe, an' to spit it up on my side-an' so she ees still t'rowing me up one fine batture. Twen'y year an' more ees pass, an' de lan' she make so fas' I am almos' to say nearly rich, wid dat beautiful bat

ture.

"An' so, from dat, w'en somebody call me 'Cave-in-Charlie,' me, I say nutting, h'only put my finger on de side my nose an' wink my h'eye. So, dat way, bimebye dey begin to change my name, an' dey call me Batture Baptiste, an' me, I accep' de name. Mais, like I tol' you, I deen' solic' it!

"Mais, I like de name, biccause it represent to me dat Almighty God keep ees h'eye on one po' ol' lame nigger, even tu'n de riv' upside down to get eem ees rights. An so, eef yo' Honor will excuse me, de river, she ees chris' me, Batture Baptiste."

"Although not so really baptized?" "Non, M'sieu', yo' Honor, mais so summonsed to appear in dis court to-day, an' here I am.

The name was allowed to stand. Then quickly, as if repenting the courtesy, or so it seemed to me, the judge said:

"I noticed just now that you spoke of 'all your wives.' Kindly explain. This is a Christian community, and you say you are a Catholic?"

The man changed color. A tinge of copper burnished his cheek as, drawing himself to his height, he answered:

"I h'always drive tandem, yo' Honor, one at a time-no double team." Then, after a pause, "You 'ristocrat w'ite gen'lemen, I am sure you understan' all dat."

This is meager enough, I know, but as a vagrant memory, it has served to set the man apart all these years, although I doubt that I should ever have recalled him but for the incident which gives me my story.

A VERY little, very wrinkled, very black woman, "Aunt Bella," had for several seasons peddled her wares at our gate in town, which is to say in New Orleans, and she had always referred so freely to her "old man," appealing for patronage through her reports of his invalidism, that when we bought her field mushrooms or

blackberries or ferns-"ferms" she called them-the purchase seemed to bear a relation to the lonely old husband at home, and into her emptied basket occasionally went small gratuities for the invalid.

As she had thus for several years kept herself in perpetual remembrance, when we began to miss her in lily-time and then in fig season; when autumn passed without a mushroom from the Jefferson pastures, and no one brought us frost-sweetened persimmons, we began to be uneasy lest some trouble had befallen the old woman. But when a second spring was well advanced and her place was being unsatisfactorily filled by relays of strapping darky girls topped by gaudy vegetable-baskets, she passed out of our minds, so that when, one morning, while I sat reading my newspaper on the back porch and quite under my vision suddenly appeared a flat Indian "fanner" filled with blooming fleur-de-lis which proceeded noiselessly to the foot of the steps at my feet, it never occurred to me to suspect that the little black hands which cautiously removed the basket from their owner's head might belong to the loved and lost Bella.

Indeed, even when I found myself dimly recognizing a hole burned by my own cigar in the sleeve of the old red smokingjacket she wore, it took several seconds to get my impressions into line; and before I had clearly remembered the sending of the jacket to Bella's husband, the lily of France was blooming at my feet and the little old woman, grotesque but delightful in red coat and wrinkles, was curtseying in old-time fashion, her wizened face in a broad grin.

"Well!" I exclaimed, really delighted; "Aunt Bella, back again!"

"Yas, sir, here I is!" She chuckled, while she removed the coil upon which she had balanced her basket. I glanced involuntarily behind me into the library window, hoping to see the mistress; but she had not come down, so I said:

'How glad the Madam will be! She has been worried about you. And the old man? Is he still living?"

"Oh, yas, sir," she sighed, fanning herself with the coil as she dropped on the step beside her basket. "Oh, yas, sir, he 's settin' dar yit-de Lord's will be done!"

It was hard to suppress a smile as she thus frankly voiced her resignation.

66

'Sitting, did you say?" I inquired. "He is n't confined to his chair, I hope?" "No, sir, not perzac'ly. But he gits along mighty slow, jes' inchin' alonginchin' along!"

"Been lame a long time, I believe?"

"Oh, yas, sir, often an' on. He been had trouble wid 'is laig all 'is life, purty nigh, but de doctor done kyored all dat sence las' watermilion-time."

66

'Since watermelon-time? Why watermelon-time?"

Just then, the lady appeared, and Aunt Bella, after answering her greeting, gave us the story:

"You see," she began, "de trouble, hit come on 'im befo' my time, whilst he was a yo'ng buck. He was out wid a passel o' triflin', no 'count loafers dat was jallous of 'im on account o' him damagin' 'em wid de ladies, an' dey tempted 'im wid tricked watermilion 'tel he gorged 'isse'f wid it. Dey had cast a spell on de milion so 's it pizened 'im, an' when he come home, he swelt up percizely lak a grea' bigbellied watermilion, an' so he circulated roun' in s'ciety for years, an' de doctors, dey used to tap 'im jes' for a pastime.

"He cost 'is marster a pile o' money, an' de doctors dey insulted togedder, an' dey bled an' dey poulticed an' dey cupped an' dey leeched, an' all dey ever dreened out was watermilion-juice! Howsomever, dey nuver reco'nized it, so dey kep' on wid Latin names an' 'spensive diseases, but de most dey ever done was to draw his trouble out'n 'is waistcoat down into 'is laig. An' so it went on, year arter year, mountin' up'ards in watermilion-season, an' den hit would 'a' split open 'is waistcoat ef dey had n't kep' 'im satisfied wid ripe watermilion. Dat was all he craved to subjue de fever in 'im-jes' heart chunks o' red-ripe milion, ice col'. So dey 'd keep 'im cancelized endurin' de summer.

"An' so he passed most of 'is life-a pompious, fat man wid two spindle laigs endurin' de summer, an' de rest o' de time, a miser❜ble puny man wid one laig swelt up same as a thirty-poun' watermilion.

"Dey tell me his laig swelt so big one time dat he could n't straddle 'is mule widout it reachin' up an' getherin' moss off'n de trees, so he could n't call on a gal he was co'tin' an' she was obligated to walk de ten miles th'ough de woods to see him, yas, sir."

"Did you say 'courting'?" the lady interrupted. "It is n't possible that he went courting in that condition?"

The old woman laughed, a shrill fal

setto.

"Who? Baptiste? Y'all don't know Baptiste! Yas, sir, why not? Baptiste been married consider'ble, often an' on. Dey ain't nuver been no time, sca'cely, when he war n't either married or seekin’ ma'iage. He's great for de ladies!" "And you?"

I could hardly enunciate the question. in the thick of a kindly mustache as I looked down at the pathetic little woman, as dark and wrinkled as a raisin.

“Well, sir,”—a faint smile lighted her old face-"you got me close-t here! But I don't min' rehearsin' it to you.

"You see, me, I 's a country nigger, 'Merican an' Pronesant, an' Baptiste, he 's Creole an' Cat'lic, an' he was raised high, in a rich man's yard. He can talk good gumbo-French an' he can read readin', an' some writin', too, an' he got good language to talk. He ain't like me.

He

"Well, ma'am-well, sir-hit was at a bobbecue in de country, on de Fofe o' July, when I fus' sot eyes on Baptiste; an' you know dat 's de height o' watermilionseason. Of co'se, at dat time he looked to be jes' a portly, slim-laig man wid bigoty manners, in a tight plaid waistcoat. had jes' buried 'is wife de week befo', dat is to say, he did n't haf to bury 'er 'caze she was drownded in de river, rowin' 'im acrost in a skift. Seem lak he leant 'is heft to one side too sudden an' swamped de skift, an' over she went; an' Baptiste, he jes' bumped along on de surfish o' de water 'tel another boat picked 'im up.

"Sir? What dat you say? Could he swim?' No, sir! He did n't need to swim! Not in July! You drap a watermilion in de river an' see what it 'll doan' you know he war n't no mo'n a human watermilion at dat season. No, sir, dat 'spe'unce in de water, hit jes' cooled 'im off good! An' so he was 'oner'bly widderered, widout de expense of a fun'al or nothin'. Dat quick Massissippi current, hit swep' 'er down in de depths to de gulf, yas 'm. Of co'se, nobody could n't blame Baptiste, 'caze she had de oars! Baptiste, he always was lucky!

"So dat 's huccome he come to de bobbecue in fresh crape; howsomever, it

war n't fresh. Baptiste been keepin' dat crape th'ough all 'is wid'rin's, but hit nuver is had mo'n a week or so of wear. He thinks I got it put away yit, but, eh, Lord! I burnt it up here las' summer. I ain't got no intention for 'im to wear no mo' wid'rin' crape, not Bella!" And she wiped her face with her apron, as she chuckled.

"Well, I went home wid 'im. Sir? Jes' a week. No, sir, I ain't sayin' it was love at fus' sight, an' I ain't sayin' it war n't. To begin wid, we-all knowed Baptiste was a free nigger, an' you know Freedom is a big word. Me, I war n't free, dem days. All dis took place in de keen las' days o' slavery, but I hired my time f'om my marster on wages an' I was free to go anywhar in de State, jes' git a pass f'om de overseer; an' I knowed I could mek mo' wages down close-t to de city 'n what I could on Bayou Crapaud.

"An' besides dat, we-all had heerd about dat batture lan' dat was makin' for Baptiste, an' 'money in bank'-of co'se dat news travels fas'. So, Baptiste, he passed for a rich man, Gord forgive 'im!"

That word struck me-"batture," and now "Baptiste."

"What batture is that?" I asked, my curiosity now fully pointed.

"Oh!" Shrugging her shoulders, "hit 's our po' little mud-hole up 'g'inst de river. You know, dat 's huccome he got dat crazy name, on account o' dat fool sandbank."

Now I listened. I had my man; but as I looked down upon the little old wife a sense of the incongruity of the mating struck me; I seemed to see again the tall Chesterfieldian man of words in the old court-house, and my heart went out afresh to the humble toiler at my feet.

"And is this the man you have been supporting all these years?" I asked, but her face showed me my mistake even before she snapped:

"Who got a right to s'po't a man, ef 't ain't 'is own wife, I like to know? An' him half crippled, at dat! Yas, sir, I sho does s'po't Baptiste, I sho does-an' de po' man is settin' out on de river-bank waitin' for my ministry dis minute!"

"All alone?" This was cruel in me, but she was good sport, was Bella.

"Huh!" she chuckled, "Huh! I'd be a heap mo' cancelized in my mind ef I

knowed he was alone! No, sir, I ain't claim dat! Baptiste is Baptiste, an' he allus was a sociable man predispositioned to de ladies; an' so, of co'se, dey 's allus a stragglin' lot o' my-color she-devils 'long de coast dat ain't got nothin' better to do, so dey strolls down to whar he sets on de levee wid plenty o' free talk an' a fan to spare. But I don't torture my mind wid sech as dat. What is a little whirlwind on de bank to spile married happiness? An' he don't forgit me! Many 's de time he 'll have de live-coals ready an' de kittle b'ilin', time I gits home wid de spare-ribs an' 'taters to cook! An' you know dat shows intruss-an' him hobblin'!"

The lady had been called to the telephone some moments before, but she returned just in time for these words.

"Hobbling!" she repeated; "I thought you said he was cured?"

"So he is, honey! He is kyored. De pizen is squenched out'n 'is systerm, but yit 'n' still he 's sort o' heavy on 'is laigs, he bein' so long subjec' to indulgencies, an' so we has to go slow."

"Tell us about his cure," I demanded, "if you can. How was it connected with watermelon? Don't you think that may have been a mistake?"

She had risen and was beginning to call attention to her lilies, but at this she settled herself again.

"Mistake about de watermilion?" she piped. "No, sir! We done proved de watermilion!"

"You proved it? I thought you said you had a doctor?" "So I is, honey! He war n't yo' sort o' doctor, an' I ain't sayin' he 's my sort. He come f'om behin' Palmetter-swamp in all dat mixtry o' de quadroon quarter. I tell you, sir, de day he come, hit was bakin' hot an' po' Baptiste, he looked fit to pop, he sho did! Well, sir, de doctor, he gi'en 'im one searchin' look an' he flipped 'im wid 'is finger, same as you 'd flip a watermilion to soun' ef it 's ripe, an' he shuk 'is haid an' 'lowed we'd better wait. I s'pec' he was 'feard he 'd pop on 'is hands. He 'lowed dat we better wait 'tel dat watermilion pressure moved f'om de neighborhoods of 'is heart, an' he say de devil dat was in 'im was a hiber'atin' devil an' we better hold on 'tel it went down into its winter quarters, an' so we waited. Yas 'm; yas, sir.