ded, taking
off his hat.

Perault's manner is reassuring, 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
passage, 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' pass 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 shore. 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 h