Part 20 (2/2)

”Take me up to the Jumping Rock,” said the boy, and they took the trail that wound up the west side of the lake.

”There now, Patsy,” said Marion, when they had arrived at a smooth shelf of rock that rose sheer out of the blue water of the lake, ”I'll put you by the big spruce there, and you can see all over the lake and everywhere.”

She slipped off the pony, carefully lifted the boy down and set him leaning against a big spruce pine that grew seemingly up out of the bare rock and leaned far out over the water. This was the swimming place for the boys and men of the village; and an ideal place it was, for off the rock or out of the overhanging limbs the swimmers could dive without fear into the clear, deep water below.

”There now, Patsy,” said the girl after she had picketed her pony, ”shall I tell you a story?”

”No. Sing, Mayan, I like you to sing.”

But just as the girl was about to begin he cried, ”Who's that comin', Mayan?” pointing down the trail.

The keen eyes of the lad had descried a horseman far away where the long slope rose to the horizen.

”I don't know,” answered the girl. ”Who is it, Patsy? A cowboy?”

”No,” said Patsy, after waiting for a few minutes, ”I think it's Perault.”

”No, Patsy, that can't be. You know Perault went out with father last week.”

”Yes, it is,” insisted Patsy. ”That's father's pony. That's Rat-tail, I know.”

The girl stood up and gazed anxiously at the approaching rider.

”Surely it can't be Perault,” she said to herself. ”What can have happened?”

She unhitched her horse, rolled up her picket rope, and stood waiting with disturbed face. As the rider drew near she called, ”Perault! Ho, Perault!”

”Hola!” exclaimed Perault, a wizened, tough-looking little Frenchman, pulling up his pony with a jerk ”Bo jou, Mam'selle,” he added, taking off his hat.

Perault's manner is rea.s.suring, indeed quite gay.

”What is it, Perault? Why are you come back? Where is father?” The girl's lips were white.

”Coming,” said Perault nonchalantly, pointing up the trail. ”We strak de bad luck, Mam'selle, so we start heem again.”

”Tell me, Perault,” said the girl, turning her piercing black eyes on his face, ”tell me truly, is father hurt?”

”Oui, for sure,” said Perault with an exaggeration of carelessness which did not escape the keen eyes fastened on his face, ”dat ole boss, you know, he blam-fool. Hees 'fraid noting. Hees try for sweem de Black Dog on de crossing below. De Black Dog hees full over hees bank, an'

boil, boil, lak one kettle. De ole boss he say 'Perault, we mak de pa.s.sage, eh?' 'No,' I say, 'we try noder crossing.' 'How far?' he say.

'Two--tree mile' 'Guess try heem here,' he say, an' no matter how I say heem be blam-fool for try, dat ole boss hees laf small, leele laf an'

mak de start. Well, dat pony hees going nice an' slow troo de water over de bank, but wen he struk dat fas water, poof! wheez! dat pony hees upset hessef, by gar! Hees trow hees feet out on de water. Bymbe hees come all right for a meenit. Den dat fool pony hees miss de crossing. Hees go dreef down de stream where de high bank hees imposseeb. Mon Dieu! Das mak me scare. I do'no what I do. I stan' an'

yell lak one beeg fool me. Up come beeg feller on buckboard on noder side. Beeg blam-fool jus' lak boss. Not 'fraid noting. Hees trow rope cross saddle. De ole boss hees win' heem roun' de horn. Poof! das upset dat pony once more. Hees trow hees feet up on water, catch ole boss on head an' arm, knock heem right off to blazes. 'Good bye,' I say, 'I not see heem more.' Beeg feller hees loose dat rope, ron down on de bank hitching rope on willow tree an' roun' hees own shoulder an' jump on reever way down on bend an' wait for ole boss. For me? I mak dis pony cross ver' queek. Not know how, an' pa.s.s on de noder side. I see beeg feller, hees hol' de ole boss on hees coat collar wit bees teef, by gar! an' sweem lak ottar. Sap-r-r-e! Not long before I pull on dat rope an' get bot on sh.o.r.e. Beeg feller hees all right. De ole boss hees lie white, white and still. I cry on my eye bad. 'Go get someting for dreenk,' say beeg feller, 'queek.' Sac-r-re! beeg fool messef! Bah!

Good for noting! I fin' brandy, an' leele tam, tree-four minute, de ole boss bees sit up all right. Le Bon Dieu hees do good turn dat time, for sure. Send beeg feller along all right.”

The girl stood listening to Perault's dramatic tale, her face growing white.

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