"Mon Dieu, Mistare Baptiste, fo' w'y you look lak dat? What ees
de mattare?"

For answer, Mr. Baptiste shook his head gloomily and sighed
again. Madame Garcia moved heavily about the kitchen, putting the
plantains in a cool spot and punctuating her foot-steps with
sundry "Mon Dieux" and "Miseres."

"Dose cotton!" ejaculated Mr. Baptiste, at last.

"Ah, mon Dieu!" groaned Madame Garcia, rolling her eyes
heavenwards.

"Hit will drive de fruit away!" he continued.

"Misere!" said Madame Garcia

"Hit will."

"Oui, out," said Madame Garcia. She had carefully inspected the
plantains, and seeing that they were good and wholesome, was
inclined to agree with anything Mr. Baptiste said.

He grew excited. "Yaas, dose cotton-yardmans, dose
'longsho'mans, dey go out on one strik'. Dey t'row down dey tool
an' say dey work no mo' wid niggers. Les veseaux, dey lay in de
river, no work, no cargo, yaas. Den de fruit ship, dey can' mak'
lan', de mans, dey t'reaten an' say t'ings. Dey mak' big fight,
yaas. Dere no mo' work on de levee, lak dat. Ever'body jus'