. Argosy and Railroad Man’s Magazine, Apr 5 1919 . on promised to bear in-teresting fruit, but I had little time to di-gest it; for while Poggio was talking Iheard the sound of oars, and ^presently thewhite prow of the long-boat emerged fromthe darkness. Here dey come! cried Tack gleefully,starting to his feet. I reckum dey got degrub—dats a cinch! Ulqueest been boss joost bout longenough, Poggio kept repeating. Heesno good. Sticking his bare feet into hisbrogans, he rose and tossed some dry fagotson the fire, which blazed up cheerfully andthrew a ruddy glow on the white lines ofrolling surf a
. Argosy and Railroad Man’s Magazine, Apr 5 1919 . on promised to bear in-teresting fruit, but I had little time to di-gest it; for while Poggio was talking Iheard the sound of oars, and ^presently thewhite prow of the long-boat emerged fromthe darkness. Here dey come! cried Tack gleefully,starting to his feet. I reckum dey got degrub—dats a cinch! Ulqueest been boss joost bout longenough, Poggio kept repeating. Heesno good. Sticking his bare feet into hisbrogans, he rose and tossed some dry fagotson the fire, which blazed up cheerfully andthrew a ruddy glow on the white lines ofrolling surf and the strip of beach just asthe boat reached it. Ulmquist, who stood in the bow, sprangashore, and turning to some one in theboat just behind him, jerked his arm as asignal to alight. - By golly! gasped Tack, his eyes roll-ing ridiculously, its Missy Gaylor—dehoodoo woman! What was my horror to see Dorothy risefrom among the rough men in the boat and,ignoring the hand that Ulmquist stretchedout to her, step daintily over the WEEK.). kept from waste. The roofs, buried undersnow except for their dormer windows,slanted gracefully heavenward; and littletrailing wreaths of smoke sauntered frombroad chimneys. Grondin loved the village almost as muchas he loved the blue Laurentians at hisback and the ice-locked St. Lawrencewhich went out toward the sea past thevillage and the misty heights of Cap Tour-ment. He was brother to the wind andsnow and the keen, cold air. What mis-fortune to be afflicted with a disease of thespirit which repeatedly weakened him in theface of necessity—thus ran his thoughts! Cest dommage! he muttered as heturned on his snow-shoes. What is a pity, my Jacques?The question came from behind him, andin a voice which, to his ears, had evershamed the chimes of Ste. Anne de turned quickly. Celeste Rigaud, towhom he was betrothed, was almost nearenough to touch him—with a sparkle inher black eyes, and red in her cheeks, anda smile like
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