Part 5

"I will not ask him, my mother, but I think that I shall win just the same. The Irish have had the contract for some years, and it is our turn now. Tom received a hundred dollars, did he not? One dollar for a drive of thirty miles, regardless of the weather. The Government is not liberal, certainly; but there will be passengers to carry now and then, and I can take butter and eggs to market in Quebec, where I shall receive better prices than at Beauport. Oh, I can see a clear profit of two hundred dollars a year, at the very least. My mother, we shall soon be as rich as Bonhomme Laroche, the old miser. Yes, I will apply to-morrow morning. There will be other applicants, no doubt."

"Yes, Jean. Tom's cousin, Paddy Brady, will try for it, to keep it in the family, you see."

"That begins to be interesting," said Jean, with a smile. "A little conflict of races, it seems. The Irish settlement will be up in arms."

"Yes, Jean, and I am afraid of Tom Sullivan. He is big and strong and has a terrible temper, I am told. He might do you harm, Jean."

"Do not fear, my mother. We have a good understanding, Tom and I, for we have had some little affairs already, you see. No, there is no danger at all. Well, in three weeks I shall be carrying Her Majesty's Mails. That is not the summit of my ambition, by any means, but it is a step. Who can tell to what it may lead?"

On the very next day Jean sent his application to headquarters in Ottawa, and in about ten days received official notice of his appointment. At the same time Tom Sullivan and Paddy Brady heard the news, and their expressions of rage can better be imagined than described. They exhausted the resources of the English language in cursing Jean Baptiste and all his ancestors, and uttered imprecations in the old Erse tongue that were fearsome to hear. The bystanders were alarmed, and came to Jean to urge him to surrender the contract if he wished to save his life.

But Jean was not to be deterred from his purpose by any threats, and before dawn on the fifteenth of July he took the road for Quebec in his spring cart, with the light mail-bag under the seat and a supply of butter and eggs for the Champlain market. He was in high spirits, for all his work was going well, and he was making a fair start along the road to success. The years of preparation were over, and he was beginning to carry out his plans, to realize his dreams. The time of deliberation was at an end; the time for action had begun.

The morning was dark, but as Jean drove along the road the sky brightened, the stars went out one by one, and a rosy glow appeared in the East, chasing the shadows down the mountain-side, until the whole valley was filled with the clear light of day. As he reached the summit of the last hill he saw the sun rise over the mountains of Notre Dame. It touched all the circle of the hills with a tinge of gold, gleamed on the tin roofs and spires of Quebec, illuminated the slopes of Beauport, the Isle of Orleans and the cliffs of Levis, while the great river shone like burnished silver, and the ships, with their white sails, moved up stream with the rising tide. The heart of Jean Baptiste rose to greet the rising sun; his soul exulted in the glorious view; and his strong voice broke into song as he descended the long slope that led to the historic Beauport Road.

"A Saint-Malo beau port de mer, A Saint-Malo, beau port de mer, Trois gros navir's sout arrives. Nous irons sur l'eau Nous y prom' promener Nous irons jouer dans l'ile.

"Trois gros navir's sont arrives, Trois gros navir's sont arrives, Charges d'avoin', charges de bled. Nous irons sur l'eau Nous y prom' promener, Nous irons jouer dans l'ile.

Jean sang the dear, foolish old song to the very end, and sang it again 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.