ng up to us. He was a little
skimpy man with crooked legs, a real French cut of beard, and an
apologetic manner. I think he rather prided himself upon his familiarity
with the English language--especially that part which is censored so
severely by editors that only a half-dozen words are permitted to appear
in cold type, and sometimes even they must hide their faces behind such
flimsy veils as this: d----n. So if I never quote Mr. Pochette verbatim,
you'll know why.

"I theenk you will not wish for cross on the reever, no?" he began
ingratiatingly. "The weend she blow lak ---- ---- ----, and my boat, she
zat small, she ---- ----."

I caught King looking at us from under his eyebrows, so I was airily
indifferent to wind or water. "Sure, we want to cross," I said. "Just as
soon as we finish our smoke, Pochette."

"But, mon Dieu!" (Ever hear tell of a Frenchman that didn't begin his
sentences that way? In this case, however, Pochette really said just
that.) "The weend, she blow lak ----"

"'A hurricane; bimeby by she blaw some more,'" I quoted bravely. "It's
all right, Pochette; let her howl. We're going to cross, just the same.
It isn't likely you'll have to make the trip for any body else to-day."
I didn't mean to, but I looked over toward King, and caught the glint of
his unfriendly eyes upon me. Also, the corners of his mouth hunched up
for a second in what looked like a sneer. But the Lord knows I wasn't
casting any aspersions on _his_ nerve.

He must have taken it that way, though; for he went out when we did and
hooked up, and when we drove down to where the little old scow they called
a ferry was bobbing like a decoy-duck in the water, he was just behind us
with his team. Pochette looked at him, and at us, and at the river; and
his meager little face with its pointed beard looked like a perturbed
gnome--if you ever saw one.

"The leetle boat, she not stand for ze beeg load. The weend, she--"

"Aw, what yuh running a ferry for?" Frosty cut in impatiently. "There's a
good, strong current on, to-day; she'll go across on a high run."

Pochette shook his head still more dubiously, till I got down and
bolstered up his courage with a small piece of gold. They're all alike;
their courage ebbs and flows on a golden tide, if you'll let me indulge in
a bit of unnecessary hyperbole. He worked the scow around end on to the
bank, so that we could drive on. The team wasn't a bit stuck on going, but
Frosty knows how to ha