"That? Why, I reckon that's Jim Bowles and his wife, Sar' Ann. They come up once in a while to get a little milk, when they ain't too durn tired. Their cow--why, say, it was a good many years ago your blamed railroad killed that cow. They never did get another one since. And that reminds me, Mr. John Eddring--that reminds _me_--" He fumbled in the wallet which he drew from his pocket, and produced an old and well-creased bit of paper. "Look here," said he, "you owe me for that filly of mine yet. That old railroad never did settle at all. Here it is. Fifty dollars." "I thought it was fifteen," said Eddring, with twinkling eyes. "That's what I said," replied Blount, solemnly, as he tore the paper in bits and dropped them at his feet. "I said fifteen! Anyway I'm in no humor to be a-quarreling about a little thing like that. Why, man, I'm just beginning to enjoy life. We're going to make a big crop of cotton this year, I've got the best pack of b'ah-dogs I ever did have yet, and there's more b'ah out in the woods than you ever did see." "I suppose your ladies leave you once in a while, to go down to New Orleans?" inquired Eddring. "No, _sir!_ New Orleans no more," said Blount. "Why, you know, just as a business precaution, I bought that house down there that Madame Delchasse used to own. It's sort of in the family now. Shut off that running down to New Orleans." "Well, how does Madame Delchasse like that?" asked Eddring. [Illustration: "MAY I DEPEND? TELL ME, GIRL. I CANNOT WAIT."] "Man," said Blount, earnestly, "there's some things that seem to be sort of settled by fate--couldn't come out no other way. Do you suppose for one minute that I'm going to allow to get away from me the only woman I ever did see that could cook b'ah meat fit to eat? Well, I reckon not! Besides, what she can do to most anything is simply enough to scare you. She can take common crawfish, like the niggers catch all around here--and a shell off of a mussel, and out of them two things she makes what she calls a 'kokeeyon of eckriveese,' and--_say, man_! You bet your bottom dollar Madame Delchasse ain't going to get away from here. Don't matter a damn if she _ain't_ got over putting hair-oil in her cocktails, like they do at New Orleans--we won't fall out about that, either. I don't have to drink 'em. Only thing, she calls a cussed old catfish a 'poisson.' That's when we begin to tangle some. But taking it all in all--up one side and down the other--I never did know before what _good_ cooking meant. Why she's _got_ to cook--she'd die if she didn't cook. Her go back to New Orleans?--well, I reckon not!