and again until he came to the main road and joined the stream of
vehicles of every description that were carrying hay and grain, butter
and eggs, potatoes and onions, strawberries and currants, and all the
produce of the Cote de Beaupre to the markets of Quebec. He was not
well known in those parts, but had a cheerful greeting for all as he
passed, and by the time he reached the bridge over the St. Charles it
was known to half of the inhabitants of Beauport and many people from
the more distant parishes that there was a new mail carrier from St.
Placide, a gay, dare-devil of a fellow, a reckless driver, but withal a
young man whom it was a pleasure to meet along the way, so debonair, so
joyous, a good fellow in every sense of the word. There were those,
even, who knew his name, who remembered his father, pronounced him a
chip of the old block, and prophesied for him a brilliant career if he
did not break his neck before he got well started on the road to fame
and fortune.
In the afternoon, as Jean was returning by the same road, he was not so
cheerful, and he did not sing, for the day had not fulfilled the promise
of the morning hours. Soon after he crossed the toll bridge his horse
cast a shoe, and he was obliged to return to a blacksmith's shop in the
city, where he spent an hour of his time and a considerable part of his
day's wages. Besides, he had to pay another toll at the bridge, which
was irritating. A little later, as he was driving along at a rapid
pace, trying to make up for lost time, a wheel came off the cart, and he
narrowly escaped a bad fall. There was another hour's delay, and further
expense.
Jean's reflections, as he toiled up the long, sandy hill toward the
mountains, were anything but agreeable. He had given a whole day's work
for nothing and less than nothing. He would arrive late with the mail,
receive a reprimand from the postmaster, and hear the sneering remarks
of the impatient neighbours. Worst of all, he had been outwitted by Tom
and Paddy, for there could be little doubt that both accidents had been
brought about by some trickery of theirs, and it was impossible to tell
what they would do next. Certainly, there was less profit in the
contract than he had thought, and little prospect of improvement; but
give it up because of opposition he would not, not if all the Sullivans
and Bradys of the Irish settlement were to set upon him.
The sun was sinking behind the mountain as Jean reached the summit of
the long hill, and it was almost dark when he came to the "Forks," about
a mile from the first house. The main road led direct to St. Placide,
about five miles away, while the road to the left went up over the
mountain in the direction of Lake Beauport, and reached St. Placide by a
route circuitous and difficult, especially after dark. Jean's horse was
accustomed to the main road, but stopped at the "Forks," and then
quickly turned to climb the hill on the left.
"_Sacre fou de cheval_," said Jean, with a laugh, "where are you going?
You are not hungry, then. You don't want to get home before midnight.
There now, come about. It was a mistake. This way, old fellow. _Marche
donc!_"
The horse came about, though unwillingly, but just as he had begun to
trot along in response to a sharp cut of the whip, Jean heard a voice
that seemed to come from some one standing directly in front of him:
"Take the other road!"
"Who's there?" said Jean, looking to see who could be on the lonely road
so late in the evening, but was surprised to find that nobody was in
sight, while the horse began to rear and to back in sheer terror, and
nearly upset the cart.
"There now, there now, old fool," said Jean, in a reassuring voice.
"You thought you heard something, did you? But nothing is there.
Gently, now. It is nothing. Go on, then. We could go by the mountain,
to be sure, but when should we arrive? No, my friend, we must take the
usual way. Go along, now, softly, if you like, but go along. There is
nothing to fear. Go along."
Jean drove on, in some little trepidation, it must be confessed, and was
not a little relieved when he heard the familiar sound of chopping, some
distance ahead. Turning a corner he saw, about a hundred yards away, a
man in the act of felling a large tree.
"Holloa, there!" he called. "Don't fell that tree. It will block the
road. Don't fell it, I say! Ah, you idiot, you did it. Now, stupid,
will you tell me how I shall get home."
"You can walk, damn you!" said Tom Sullivan, for it was he; and beside
him stood his cousin, Paddy Brady, also with an axe in his hand.
"Oh, it is you, Tom," said Jean, with a friendly smile. "You are cutting
some firewood, I see. Will you please take it out of the way as soon as
possible."
"Take it away yourself, you damned Frenchman," said Tom, with a sneer.
"What business have you coming along at this time o' night? A fine mail
driver you are. You should have been at the office two hours ago. By
the powers, it'll take you two hours more to get there on shank's mare.
Ha! Ha! The new driver will be late, and it's not long he'll be
carrying Her Majesty's Mail. Her Majesty'll be getting rid of him damn
quick, I be thinking."
"Tom," said Jean, in a conciliatory but firm tone, "will you take that
timber away, or will you not?"
"I will not," said Tom, defiantly.
"Then, Tom," said Jean, getting out of the cart and advancing
deliberately, "will you lend me your axe for a minute?"
"Lend you my axe, you damned thief!" roared Tom, with a volley of
curses. "I'll lend it to you. Yes! Take that!"
At the word Tom aimed a blow at Jean that would have split his head
open, but that he, stepping nimbly aside, let the axe swing harmlessly
by, and before Tom could recover, closed with him, wrenched the weapon
from his hands and flung him violently to the ground.
"Help, Paddy, help!" yelled Tom. "Kill him, Paddy! For the love of
God, kill him, I say!"
But Paddy had no stomach for a fight, and stood aside with mingled
amazement and admiration as Jean, turning his back on both his enemies,
began to cut the branches of the tree, close to the bark, with great
rapidity, until finally he cut away the top and only the bare trunk
remained to block the way.
"Now, Paddy," said Jean, throwing down the axe, "if you will help me
we'll throw this log out of the way. There, take hold of that end. Now,
Paddy, heave!"
Paddy put forth all his strength, but could not lift the end of the log,
while Jean lifted his end about three feet, and then let it drop.
"What's the matter, Paddy? Why don't you lift?"
"Cut it in two and I'll lift my end," said Paddy. "Why, man, it weighs a
ton at the very least."
"A ton, Paddy, is that all? We can lift it, then. Come--another try."
"Not for me," said Paddy, standing back. "I know what I can do."
"Well," said Jean, "you surprise me, Paddy Brady. I am disappointed in
you. But the log must go. Saint Jean to my aid. Watch me, Paddy."
With that Jean bent down, his arms between his knees, his fingers
gripping the log like a vice, and as he rose the log rose, slowly,
steadily, until Jean stood erect holding the great trunk in his iron
grip. Taking a long breath he put forth a mighty effort and lifted the
log by the strength of his arms alone, inch by inch, until it reached
the height of a man and rested for a moment on his shoulder. Then,
taking hold lower down, Jean raised the log with ease until it stood
upright, when, with a slight push, he sent it crashing down the cliff to
the rocks below.
"My God!" said Paddy, with a gasp. "What a lift! I feel as though all
my bones were cracked. Jean Baptiste, my bully boy, it's the strong man
of the world you are. Give me your hand, man alive. From now on I'm
your friend, and it's sorry I am for what has happened. Forgive me,
Jean, and Tom too. He meant you no harm."
"Say nothing, Paddy," said Jean, with a smile. "I am well content to
have a friend like you. But your cousin--I fear that I have hurt him.
Tom, my friend, I was too rough and I am sorry. Forgive me."
Tom Sullivan made no reply, but glared at his enemy like a wounded bear.
"Tom," persisted Jean, "will you not let me drive you home? As to the
contract, you shall have it. I will give it up."
"Give it up, you damned thief? Yes, when I kill you. Forgive you?
Yes, when you are in Hell!"
"But, Tom----"
"The curse o' Crummle on you!" snarled Tom, turning his face away in
bitterness of soul.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*THE CITY MAN*
It was a midsummer evening soon after Jean's first experience as
mail-carrier, when he drove up to the house with a passenger, the first
of a long procession of summer tourists that were to be the beginnings
of prosperity to St. Placide.
"_Dieu merci!_" said the City Man, as the spring cart stopped at the
Giroux door. "God be thanked that we are here at last! Let us descend.
Ah, but I have cramps in my legs. What a drive! Four hours over those
infernal roads, up and down those everlasting hills. But in the end we
arrive; as the evening shadows fall we come to our destination. Behold
a house in the wilderness. Regard the light in the window. See, the
door opens and Madame the hostess appears on the threshold. Are we
invited to enter?"
"Certainly," said Jean. "Come in, Monsieur. Let me present you to my
mother, Monsieur, who will take care of you while I put my horse in the
stable. My mother, this is Monsieur Trudel, a gentleman from Quebec who
wishes to have a day's fishing in the St. Ange."
"Come in, Monsieur," said Madame Giroux, with a smile of welcome. "It
is but a poor house, but we will give you of our best. See, you were
expected, and the supper is on the table. Take a place, Monsieur; we
will serve you immediately."
"With great pleasure, Madame. Ah, how good it is to have arrived
somewhere! This is not the Hotel St. Louis, to be sure, nor even the
Chien d'Or, but it is a comfortable habitant home, very proper in every
way, as one sees. What a fine, solid old table! How cosy those rag
carpets! How gay the blue china on the dresser--genuine willow pattern,
too! How cheery that bright fire! It was getting cold outside. Ah,
Madame, you bring me soup--puree of green peas. This is soup indeed.
What flavour! What genial warmth! Madame, it goes to my heart. Never
have I tasted anything so appetising, so nourishing, so consoling.
Believe me, it is not in Quebec that one eats such soup."
"Monsieur," said Madame Giroux, beaming upon the stranger. "I am
pleased to know that you like the soup. Now try a little of the ragout,
if you please. You will find it tasty, I hope."
"Madame, you will not need to ask me twice, I assure you. Such a ragout
after such a soup! I have no words. I am silenced. I can only ask for
more of that ragout, and then a little more. Madame Giroux, this is the
place I have been dreaming about all the year, all through the long
winter, and now for two days I escape from the heat and dust of the
city, and here I am--in Paradise. Here I would stay for the rest of my
life. Ah, how I love the peace, the solitude of this place, where one
has such an appetite and where one is regaled with such delicacies!
Some more ragout? Ah, no, Madame, it is enough. Never do I eat to the
point of surfeit. Wild strawberries and cream, you say? Yes, I accept
willingly. And a cup of hot tea? Certainly. And after that my pipe,
with your permission. Truly, I am content. It is a good world, is it
not?"
"But yes, Monsieur, it is the world of the good God."
"Ah! I had not thought of that. On the contrary, I have often thought
it the world of the devil. Back there in the city it is surely so, but
in these mountains it may be that the good God still resides. Who can
tell? At least, there are good people here. That son of yours,
Madame--he is a brave lad, and quite intelligent. He is no stupid
habitant, not he. Quite different from the others--one sees that. He
has studied, even, has he not, Madame?"
"But yes, Monsieur, he has studied, very much. We were going to make a
priest of him, but he would not. It was a pity, was it not?"
"A pity? Yes, a pity that you ever thought of it. To make a priest of
Hector! To put a soutane on Achilles! To make him sit in a little box
while young ladies come to confess their sins, their most grievous sins!
Ha! Ha! No, that is not for him. For others, perhaps, but for him
work and war and love. That is his vocation. But there he comes. Look
at him. Have you ever seen a more perfect model of a man; a true Greek
of the heroic age?"
"Well, my friend, you are coming to supper at last, and you have an
appetite like a wolf. I also had an appetite, but it is gone, because
of a certain soup of green peas and a certain ragout, besides other
dainties. But do not fear, I have left something for you. Fall to, my
brave one. Enjoy the good things of life. Meanwhile I will show you my
tackle, the apparatus with which I shall catch your trout. Look, my
brave habitant, have you ever seen a collection like this?"
The City Man thereupon unrolled his kit, and displayed before the
astonished eyes of Madame Giroux and Jean the most complete assemblage
of fishing tackle ever seen in St. Placide. There were lance-wood rods
of the finest stock, with delicate tips so slender that one would think
they could not hold a minnow, and yet so tough that, in the hands of a
skilful angler, they might draw in a salmon, though not without a long
struggle. There were reels of gun-metal and oxidized silver, thin lines
of the finest silk, casting-lines of gut and horse-hair, and a book of
choice flies of every kind, from the modest March Brown and the plain
Grey Hackle to the handsome Silver Doctor and the gaudy Jock Scott.
"_Mon Dieu_, Monsieur," said Jean, "you have all that is necessary,
certainly. There is not a trout in the St. Ange that will be able to
resist you."
"That is what I think," said the City Man, with a confident smile. "We
shall catch fish to-morrow, you may be sure. And here is a little
steelyard for weighing the big ones. It goes up to five pounds. We
shall not take a trout bigger than that in this stream."
"I think not," said Jean. "It is very seldom that so large a fish is
caught. If we get one of two pounds we shall do well. In former times
there were plenty of big trout, and there are some left, but it is not
easy to catch them. It demands skill and patience."
"If that is all," said the City Man, "we shall get them. You will see,
my brave Jean. Look, for example, at this little book, a record of my
achievements for the past four years. See! Stoneham, June 17th, 1895,
54 trout; June 18th, 55; June 19th, 68, of which the smallest was 8
inches in length and the largest, 16 inches. Again, Metabetchouan, Lac
St. Jean, June 10th, 1896, 33 ouananiche, running from 1 to 5 pounds.
Once more, Restigouche, July 5th, 1897, two salmon of 15 pounds each,
one of 19 pounds, and one of 25 pounds. I could go on, but that is
enough to show you that I have caught fish in my day, thousands of
trout, hundreds of salmon, besides black bass innumerable, pike, too,
and maskinonge, that tiger of the Canadian rivers. Yes, I claim to be
an angler, a faithful disciple of the good Sir Isaac.
"You smile, my rural friend? Well, to-morrow I will show you. You will
take your bamboo pole, your clothes line and your fat worms, while I
will take one of my light rods, a thin silk line, a delicate cast, and
those flies, as many as may be necessary, and at the end of the day we
shall see. Yes, we shall see, my little demigod, my Ajax of the parish.
If I do not take two trout for every one of yours, and the biggest fish
of the day, I will give you my best rod and my book of flies, and I will
eat my boots by way of penance. What do you say? Shall we have a
contest for the championship of the St. Ange?"
"Willingly," said Jean, "but with your permission I will not use the
bamboo pole of which you speak, nor the fat worms. I also have a liking
for fly-fishing, and I should like to enter the contest on equal terms.
If you win, Monsieur, which is more than likely, I shall be glad to have
you take as the spoils of war the arms of the vanquished. But as for
eating boots, you will excuse me, Monsieur, if I have no appetite for
that."
"_Mon Dieu_, Monsieur Jean de St. Placide de St. Ange, but you have the
true spirit of the olden time. And he fishes with a fly; the little
habitant of the mountains uses the weapons of chivalry. Good! We shall
have a tourney for trout, for glory, for the love of ladies. And I will
overthrow you, so to speak, carry away your sword, your spear, your coat
of mail, and put your name in my little book. Ha! ha! It will be sport
indeed, and war--yes, war to the death.
"But meanwhile, my good Jean, we are the best of friends, are we not?
You do not mind my innocent persiflage, I am sure. It is but the
effervescence of spirits too long confined in the narrow conventions of
city life, a little bubbling over of froth on the top of good liquor.
Were it not for that I should burst, I think, at the heart. Ah, the
blessed country! What relief, what freedom, what recreation! But it
occurs to me that a good sleep would be the best preparation for the
struggle of the coming day. Is it not so, Jean? Madame, with your
permission I will take my candle. Madame, I retire. I bid you
good-night. Until four o'clock, Jean, my dear enemy."
At four o'clock Jean aroused the City Man from a dreamless sleep; at
half-past four they had breakfast; and an hour later they were setting
up their rods by the St. Ange, at a place where the river was broad and
a strong man could ford the stream.
"This is where I usually begin," said Jean, "for it is a good place to
cross. If you will take the other side you will find good fishing."
"No doubt," said the City Man, "the fishing must be good over there
since few men could cross that current. But I will take no advantage,
my friend. You shall cross and I will fish on this side."
"But no, Monsieur, you do not know the stream, as I do. Pass over, if
you please."
"Not at all, Jean, I will not. But wait. Let us toss a coin. Heads,
you go across, tails, I go."
"Tails," said Jean.
"It is tails, Jean, so you have your way, after all. Well, here goes, my
brave one. I will take the other side according to the hazard, and meet
you somewhere above, later in the day. _Au revoir_, Jean."
"_Au revoir_, Monsieur, and good luck to you."
The City Man waded into the stream, and when he reached the middle,
standing in three feet of swift water, he made a dexterous cast and
immediately hooked a fine, half-pound trout. After a brief struggle he
brought the fish to hand, and held it up with a shout of triumph.
"There, Jean," he called, above the noise of the water. "First blood!
Begin, my brave one, you have no time to lose. Begin, begin."
Thus the contest began, and all day the rivals fished up the stream,
trying their best to outdo each other both in numbers and size. The day
was perfect, with alternating sun and shade, and a light breeze that
raised a ripple on the pools, and in both pools and rapids the hungry
trout rose eagerly to the fly. Jean passed quickly along, contenting
himself with taking one or two fish in every good place, while the City
Man patiently whipped every foot of the stream. In some pools he took
four or five trout, and there was not a likely place where he did not
catch at least one fish.
Soon Jean was far ahead, but the City Man paid no attention to him.
Enjoying the solitude, the sound of the water, the voice of the breeze,
the delicious mountain air, he took keen delight in examining with a
practised eye every pool and riffle, every possible lurking-place for
the agile, wary trout. In this swift water he would take an eight-inch
fish, behind that rock in mid-stream he would hook a ten-inch trout that
would fight like a veteran; in that deep pool beneath the shade of an
overhanging pine he might hope to take a trout weighing at least a
pound, with a chance of capturing a big fish, the prize of the day.
It was glorious sport, the best that the City Man had ever known, and it
had for him an added zest in the thought of the contest with his rustic
adversary, the triumph that would be his, and the trophy that he was
going to win. It was not a very fine rod, that of Jean Baptiste, but it
would be an interesting memento of his visit to St. Placide, and a
further proof of his claim to the title of champion angler of the
Province. So the City Man went on fishing all the day, never once
relaxing his efforts, not even stopping to eat the good luncheon that
Madame Giroux had provided. The morning passed; the afternoon wore
away; while the City Man's pannier was gradually filled, until there was
not room for another trout. Then he noticed that the sun was sinking,
and the shadows creeping down the mountainside.
"_Mon Dieu,_" he said to himself, "I had no idea that it was so late.
And we must be at least four miles from the house. How heavy that
pannier! A good catch, certainly. But where is my poor Jean Baptiste?
I have not seen him since the early morning. Ah, there he is on the
other side, sitting on a big rock and smoking his pipe as though at
peace with himself and all the world. He has given up the contest, that
is clear. Well, the poor devil must have some consolation. But I
wonder how long he has been there."
"_Hola_, Jean! _Hola_, there! Can one cross at this place?"
"Yes, Monsieur," called Jean. "This is the best ford on the river.
Come right over. The water is not at all deep."
"Well, my brave one," said the City Man, as he stepped out of the water.
"Well, my noble angler, and did you catch some fish? Did they take
worms to-day?"
"You forget, Monsieur, that we were to fish with flies."
"Oh, yes, very true. And you have done it? It was hard work, was it
not? It demands skill, as you have discovered. But do not be
discouraged. Cheer up. You will learn in the course of time. A young
man of your intelligence can learn anything. Come now, how many did you
take?"
"I have not counted them, Monsieur," said Jean, "but I see that you have
made a good catch, a very good catch."
"A good catch? Well, I may say so," said the City Man, a little
nettled. "It is the catch of my life. See! I will pour them out on the
pebbles. Yes, a nice pile of trout. Let us count them.
One--two--three ... seventy-two--seventy-three--seventy-four--all good
fish--and this two-pounder makes seventy-five. A good day's work. Yes,
Jean, there are trout in this river, but it takes skill to catch them.
It is all in a little turn of the wrist. I will teach you. But show
your fish. If you have thirty-eight trout, I lose."
"Well," said Jean, with a smile, getting his pannier from the cool shade
of the rock, "I think that I have at least thirty-eight. Let us see.
One--two--three--four ... thirty-seven--thirty-eight--thirty-nine ...
seventy-four--seventy-five--seventy-six ...
eighty-eight--eighty-nine--ninety. There, Monsieur, that is not
bad--ninety good trout; and this one, the brother of yours; and this
other, the grandfather of both. There, that is all."
The City Man was speechless. He gasped in astonishment, grew pale for a
moment, then red in the face; but presently, as he gazed on the
wonderful catch, his equanimity returned, and with it a glow of
enthusiasm for the angler who had shown a prowess so unexpected, so
utterly admirable. Turning to Jean with an air of new and profound
respect, he said:
"Monsieur Giroux, I salute you as the most perfect angler of the
Province. More than that, I say, I, Gaspard Trudel, that there is not
your equal in the whole of Canada. Accept, I beg of you, this rod of
mine. It was a trophy, and I have used it with pride, but now it will
be in more worthy hands. Monsieur Giroux, once more I salute you."
Two days later, as Jean was driving Monsieur Trudel back to the city,
they talked much of the future industrial development of St. Placide.
Monsieur Trudel was a man of vision, and entered with enthusiasm into
Jean's plans and ambitions, declaring that an angler of such eminence
could attain the same distinction in other fields of effort and would
succeed in anything that he might undertake. But the sportsman was also
an astute lawyer and man of affairs, and wisely counselled Jean to make
haste slowly, step by step, overcoming minor obstacles as they were
encountered and gaining strength and experience by which he should
remove mountains in the course of time. Meanwhile, there was the farm
to manage, the mail contract to fulfil, and if bed and board could be
provided for sportsmen such as he, it would be easy to find many tired
men from the city who would gladly spend their holidays in such a
paradise. So it was Monsieur Trudel who, for good or ill, first
suggested to Jean the exploitation of the summer tourist.
*CHAPTER IX*
*THE LOAN*
"If I am not mistaken," said Monsieur Trembly, the notary, with a shrewd
smile, "it is, in effect, a hotel that you would be building at St.
Placide, a house of twelve rooms, by far the largest in the parish.
Your good friend Monsieur Trudel has told me all about it. A great
sportsman, he. A good advocate, of course, a Q.C., in line for the
bench, and all that, but a sportsman above all, and an angler, the most
skilful in the Province. He has discovered St. Placide, it seems, and
would like you to build a hotel for himself and his brother anglers. Not
a bad idea. But it will cost money to build a place like that--as much
as five thousand dollars, perhaps."