# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 10/Number 1/John Quixote

Extracted from Red Book magazine, 1907 Nov, pp. 120–128. Illustrations by Walter J. Enright may be omitted.
John Quixote
By GEORGE ALLAN ENGLAND
Author of “The Electroboat and Mon Père,” etc.
“BY Gar, dey mak one hero out of me, an' marry my Rosie, too, get beeg fine house, all on account of it—me w'at ant been capab' for swim one stroke! W'at you t'ink of such beesness, hein? Ant nevaire heard dat? Ho, wait, I tole you!”
Jean Beauleau stretched his stocking-feet toward the fire and bit off a whacking chaw:; I settled myself to listen.
“All de Habitaw fellers on Croteau's Camp,” he continued thickly, “dey called me 'Jean-Qui-Saute,' cause I use' to be me jumpin' Frenchman, lak you goin' for see pretty soon. De odders, Hamericans an' P. I. fellers, w'at ant speak Franca, mak dat name to be 'John Quixote.' Yas, sir, I been call John Quixote by dem, two t'ree season on de drive. Say, w'at dat mean, eh, dat Quixote? Some funny-beesness, hein? I ant nevaire understan' dat name. Some Spaneesh man, you say, w'at been hero long tam ago an' mak everybody laugh? All right, dat's good joke on me, gr-r-rand, for two, t'ree season, only now I maybe turn dat joke on de odder side, win de prize, me, not be such big fool w'at dey try for mak me!
“Say, you w'at is Franchmans qui saute—jumpin' Franchmans, hein? No? Well, I tole you dat, too. Sometam Habitaw he get scare' sudden by some beeg noise, some grand excitements, somet'ing, an' lose hees nerves; so always after dat he's goin' for jump lak he been crazee every tam somebody holler at heem—goin' for do everyt'ing, anyt'ing w'at somebody tole heem. No matter w'at t'ing, foolish dangereuse, if somebody yell quick, loud, he do it, every tam. Hit mak one grand, beeg, eemense joke for everybody—except de Habitaw w'at do de jumpin'. Everybody like for mak him jump, mak him spill de soup at table, drop de haxe w'en he's been chop in de wood, jump on some mud puddle, t'row away somet'ing w'at he ant want to lose—no matter w'at is, he's got for do it, can't help it, im-possible! Dat's me, all right; I use' to be just dat way. Say, it ant no fun, for be a jumpin' Franchmans, now I tole you! An' yet, mistaire, dat's de very same t'ing w'at mak me a hero at de last, w'at win me my Rosie, wit' dis house an' all de land, w'at fix me all right so I ant have for work on de reever no more—after all, I ant got no kick, not by full jugs?”
Beauleau paused to scratch the memories from his shaggy poll. I leaned back in his squeaking rocker, looked out through his sunny window at the rough-cobbled, twisty little street of Trois Rivières, and waited.
Presently he began again:
“Happem dis way. Dat last vear w'at I work, four Spring ago, everybody's been pretty good for me on Croteau's Camp ex-cept one beeg, eemense Habitaw, Batiste Coderre, w'at always go for mak some trouble wit' me. Why for? Bon Di, w'at's de use for tell you all de tam me an' him been rival, been mak love to de same Franch gal, an' neither one been capab' for get ahead de odder? Rosie Sallier, ouay, mossieur, dat's her—ma femme now! You hear her get de souper, dis very minute, out in de kitchen? No matter—de trouble been between me an' Coderre more as two year, an' gettin' worse all along, so bad at last dat Coderre he swear he's goin' for do me up sometam tout de bon. All de Spring in camp, dat year, he's been mak fun wit' me, get de laugh on me, mak me jump pretty often—one tam he's mak me t'row my silver watch in cedar swamp so I ant nevaire find it, no, sir! If he ant been 'bout two tam bigger as me, I t'ink we have had some beeg fight all de tam; but I ant dare tackle him, so de trouble she's drag along, drag along, go from worse to bad. It go dat way till people begin for say I been one coward—Rosie she hear dat, too, an' I been in danger she t'row me over an' marry dat bully, you comprend?
“Oh, t'ings go terreeble for me, dat Spring, how Coderre he mock himself of me an' jump me, how all de odders pile in, laugh an' joke me, how I sometam hear from Rosie I got for do different, brace up, an' be a man or I get de haxe, yas, sir! A beeg fight, I know, she got to come pretty soon, an' I know de one w'at lick dat fight goin' for get Rosie, wit' her house an' de land—an' I know, too, w'at's de worst of all, dat de feller w'at's going for lick de odder ant been call John Quixote!
“Well, say, dat fight, you know, dat fight she's break de—w'at you caal it?—de record, hein? Sure t'ing, she's break de record on Croteau's Camp. It happem one Tuesday evenin', one tam w'en de boss been away to Lotbinière. De late part of de season it been, when we get de last of de logs down from de yards to de reever, an' just been waitin' for de ice go out, for mak de drive. Everybody been tired, bad in de temper, ready for trouble, 'specially me an' Coderre. Right after souper, dat evenin', de fight she's commence, an' say, she ant finish till most nine o'clock; an' when she finish dere ant one man on dat camp has got a whole skin; ant one chair has got more as two lags, ant no lamp left; de deacon-seat she's been broke in two piece,an' de stove she's been w'at it say on de newspaper 'total wreck.' John Quixote been at de bottom of de pile, too, lak I goin' tole you!
“Here's how she go, dat fight. After de souper—good souper, too, wit' bean-swagin, molasse an' hot biscuit—I change my moccasin, fill my pip an' go for have one good smoke. Well, just about de tam my match she's burn good an' I been goin' for light dat pip, 'Jetta-la!' yell Coderre loud lak thunder in my ear, an' ba gollee, how I throw dat match—throw her so she's fall red-hot in de neck of Chip Wenzell, one beeg herrin'-choker from Prince Edward's. Chip he's holler an' grab, an' de glowin' match she's fall down hees back. Up he jump, wit' language explodin' out of him lak one Mount Mesnuvius, swing a fist an' lift Coderre on de jaw so hees head hit vlan! on de bunk. Sapristi, such a hit!
“'Take dat!' holler Chip. 'You done it wit' your blam foolin'! I'm good mind give you 'nodder one, see?'
“Everybody bust out laughin'. 'Dat's right!' 'Hit 'im again!' 'Give him good one for me!' holler some of de boys w'at ant love Coderre much.
“Coderre he jump up mad lak some hornets, an' take one, two steps toward Chip, but Chip he's look pretty beeg, an' his fist been double hard lak iron, so Coderre he's think better an' turn on me.
“'You sacré leetle torieux!'” he shout, rubbin' his head wit' one hand, an' makin' a fist wit' de odder, 'I'm good mind pass dat along to you! Yes, sir, for five cen' I mak you flat same as one mashed maranguin!' Tink of it! He raise his fist on me 'fore everybody, he call me torieux an' mosquito! How I goin' stand it? Sure I been scared, but everybody laugh more, mak w'at you call de jolly of me, and den, too, I t'ink of la belle Rosie—de blood rush on my face, go red in front of my eyes.
“Bat him!” yell somebody—I jump forward, lak scat, an' ba gollee I give him hard, quick blow wit' all my force on de odder side his head from where Chip hit, so dat voila! down he fall again, not expectin' it, an' knock his head once more!
“Good boy.' 'Go it!' 'Hammer it to him!' I hear de fellers shout, all crowd in' round, an' I jump on dat Coderre, as he lay strugglin' on de floor, I go for follow dat blow up; but some Hamericans in de crowd. (Hamericans have some fool idea 'bout not hit a man w'en he's down, so much as to say dat w'en you been fightin' you ant want to hurt de odder feller all you capab'!), some Hamericans, I tole you, grab me an' pull me back, an' holler 'Fair play!' 'Let him up!' 'Make a ring!' W'at I can do? Malheur! I have for wait till Coderre he get up, mad now lak some bull wit' red rags, an' rush for me. I dodge—sacré bleu, how I wish I can run, but I ant no chance for do it, no, sir—I have for stay an' finish dat, sure t'ing! He rush, I dodge, he miss me, for I been quick on my feet—he swing his fist, but ant touch nothin'. He turn on me again, mad so dat de veins on his neck been swell out lak string.
“'Crapaud!' he holler, poundin' his chest wit' both fist. 'You little jumpin' crapaud! You wait one minute an' I bet I mak you jump dis tam sure! Dis goin' for be one grand jump, houp-là!'
“An' up he spring in de air wit' a yell w'at mak my blood feel cold lak de reever-water in Janvier. He spring up an' knock de heel togedder, lak he always do w'en he de maddest posseeble. In spite his heavy boots wit' spike in de sole, w'at you call de corked boots, he jump t'ree foot high, an' twice his heel hit each odder before he come down an' rush for me, both arm swingin', both fist double up, so, lak he goin' mash me wit' one coup. Ah-ha! He's been so mad he ant keep no guard at all. Zut! I dodge low, shoot up my fist an' take him under de chin so his teeth dey rattle lak de bones in a minstrel-show. His big arm swing, but he ant hit me—he go over my head, an' begin for tell all 'bout my ancestors, 'way back, an' everybody laugh an' cheer, everybody crowd 'round us in dat log-camp, oh twenty, thirty lumberjacks, wit' only one oil-lamp for keep de dark out. Half a douzaine climb up on de deacon seat, for see us lak dey been on one gran' stand; two, t'ree jump on de stove (de fire been most out), for have box-seat in de great show. An' in de middle of all dat excitements was me an' big Coderre jumpin' round lak fleas, rushin' lak mad bulls, tryin' for kill each odder wit' fist an' foot an' teeth.
“Well, sir, Coderre he's get madder an' madder every minute; he rush me, his arms flyin' round lak some windmill. W'at's dat? De Spaneesh feller fight windmill, hein? Mon Di, I ant know nothin' 'bout dat; de only thing I know next been Coderre's big fist come pan!—on my head-side,so I stagger lak I been drink one quart, mebbe two quart of dat Canadaw high-wine. All kinds stars bust out in bunches; my head she spin so I feel lak she's goin' for come off, an' ho my, w'at yells an' hollers dat crowd make, an' stampin' wit' de feet, wavin' wit' de harms in dat dark old camp! Den, 'Look out! Gare! yell some of de boys, an' I see Coderre rushin' me, goin' knock my head off dis tam, sure. Say, w'at I do, hein? De only trick I know—I double up lak one ball, an' jump (I been good jumper, you bet!) jump wit' all my strength in de stomach of dat Coderre.
“'Houff!' he grunt; an' w'at you t'ink? His spiked boot-heel she must have catch on de rough pole floor, for he lose his balance an' go down, slam on de poles, wit' me grabbin' for his t'roat. Such a holler w'at de crowd mak! Holler an' cheer an' hooray for leetle Jean-Qui Saute w'at lick dat windmill, Coderre!
“Coderre he get up ravin', and we sail in again. We dance round an' round, everybody disputin', makin' la grande commune; me tryin' for tire out dat feller. He swing for my head, I duck; I try for reach his neck, but ant been capab' break de guard, an' jump away. 'Moucheron!' he hiss—call me de gnat, see? because I ant goin' for stand still an' let him rake de face off me! I feel in my belt, wish de bon Dieu let me have my huntin'-knife; but no, I ant got him—nothin' but my two bare han's, dat's all, for kill dat animal. W'at kind of way is dat to fight, hein! same lak some lucivees in de wood!
“I circle, circle, lookin' for some place I dodge in an' break his jaw, but he's been careful; he ant let me have no chance. Den, all of a sudden, he's rush at me—I dodge back—he drive me against de stove, whirl, mak one leap an' give me dat backward-kick w'at dey call tirer la savate! I see it comin', turn my head one side; if I ant, my whole face been peel off by dem spikes in de boot-sole. Lak it was, de spikes hit my neck—see? Yas, dem marks is de scar of w'at Coderre he done to me, dat tam. Some grand, terreeble pain shoot t'rough my neck, I stagger, t'row up my hands, an' fall over de stove backwards, dat stove w'at already been hold up t'ree men. Rataplan! How she's bust, dat stove! Sound lak one boiler-shop she's explode; it rain stove-pipe, soot, ashes, burnin' wood, men, ole iron—somebody grab at de lamp, fallin', an' bang! she's smash, bust up, de camp she's been dark, full of smoke, fightin' men, language, all in one second, an' me lyin' on de bottom of dat pile, my neck bleedin', my head 'bout unconscious wit' de pain, seein' eemense big star, lak comet, wit' long tails w'at go in grand big circles, every color, somet'ing wonderful!
“'Camerades! Au secours!' I hear some Franchmans yell, an' de cloudburst come. Lumber-camp, wit' mixed crew, you know, been one powder-barrel anyway; all w'at you need is one match, an' Pouf!
“Well, say, dat Croteau's Camp been lak whirlpool, lak de Lachine rapides w'en you run 'em in canoe—only I ant know much about it. I lay under dat busted stove, bleed lak cochon out of my neck; I ant more dan half hear dat gr-r-rand, terreeble riot in de dark. when everybody been fightin' wit' fist, bench, chair, stovepipe, teeth, hot iron, boots, toute sorte de choses!
“'Bout four days after dat—Saturday night it was—just w'en my neck's been de most sore, healin' up, an' my mind been sorer as my neck, hearin' de fellers rub it in how Coderre he's lick me, hearin' Coderre himself rub it in, one letter come for me on de post-box w'at been nailed to de big tamarack near de landin'. De tote-team feller bring dat letter up to camp. De letter, she's been from Trois Rivières; w'en I see dat post-mark an' de writin' I tr-ramble, me, for I know she's from Rosie. I ant hardly been capab' tear open de envelope, my hand she's shook so. Everybody crowd 'round, want to hear w'at de letter say, try for jolly me, but I ant let 'em—no, I crawl in my bunk, light one candle I got stuck on a piece of bark, an' read dat all myself. 'Bout two words been enough.
“'Mossieur,' she say, 'I hear full account of dat fight you have—how your terreeble temper mak you strike poor Batiste de first blow—how he defend himself—how you get terreeble—lickin', lak you deserve—' an' so on, somet'ing frightful, an' finish wit' some remark how no Franch gal goin' for marry one man wit' temper lak mine, one lâche—coward, hein?—w'at get licked same lak I done. Dat's all, dat an' 'adieu à jamais.' Say, mistaire, tink of dat! Bon Dieu, an' me w'at love dat gal so much! W'en I read de letter, some groan come out my lungs—I feel sick all over lak I been get some more kick from Coderre, only de difference dat a congé from man's best gal hurt much more worse as any lickin', yas, sir, ba gollee!
“Now, dat ant been de worst part yet! W'at you tink happem next? You ant not even goin' believe dat, maybe, wen I tol you it's de true. Rosie, dat fine gal, she's tak notion for visit on Croteau's Camp, yas, sir, for come on dat rough place, see de beginnin' of de drive! Dat been her excuse, I s'pose; but I bet you it's for see Coderre an' also mak me sore, dat's w'at!
“Her père, you know, her père he come wit' her, so it's all right; he been one great friend wit' de boss. People sometam comes for see de drive begin, so dat ant nothin' strange; but de t'ing w'at's been strange, most misfortunate for me is to see dat gal just dat tam after she's t'row me down—see her mak eyes at Coderre an' geeve me de cold shoulder, ouay, mossieur!
“Well, she come a few days later, wit' her old man an' her cousine Pauline an' some boatmen w'at row bateau for dem down de reever. Say, but she look fine—gr-r-rand! She wear some beautiful dress, red an' yallow, wit' big green hat—très belle! I ant nevaire see her look so magnifique—pink cheek, sparklin' eye!
“I been workin' on de yard wit' cant-dog, rollin' log down de bank into de reever w'en I see her, dat tam; an' I feel 'shamed' now I tole you—me, in my old mackinaw, moccasin. p'inted cap! I pull off de cap, bow low to her; but say! she ant see me no more as dough I been one scrub-pine! De whole crew been on dead jump for get de last of de yard down in de watter, where most of de winter's cut been lyin-—whole stream for long way been covered wit' log, held by big boom 'way below, ready for start on de drive. W'en de foreman see me stop work, tak off my cap, he holler: 'Hey, you, get busy you dub!' An me—w'at I can do? Nothin'—no, I have for grab dat cant-dog an' go rollin' timber, my heart most bustin' wit' de hinsult an' de laugh w'at Rosie mak of me! I been glad for cut dat foreman's t'roat, yas, sir, ba gollee!
“Rosie, wit' de odder visitors, she's pick her way lak kitten over de rough ground, 'long de reever-bank. Sometam she's stop for speak wit' somebody she know—she been 'quainted wit' lot of de men from Trois Rivières—it's only me she ant know—me wit' my neck all wrap in bandage, where dat bully spike me. She stop, talk wit' Coderre, look very happy, shake han's wit' him, bavarde wit' him good five minute, an' de foreman ant say one word, not one sacré syllab', no, sir! Say, mistaire, perhaps I ant grit my tooth some, double my fist, t'ink how good it feel for slide my knife between de rib of dat Coderre! I guess so. Den she pass on, down de reever-bank, for see dat great eemense crib of log w'at reach two mile down de stream.
“After while it come noon—dinner-tam. Everybody been in fine good spirit, everybody happy, for de boom goin' be cut dat afternoon, de drive she's goin' for commence, an' on de drive, you know, it's hard work, but more pay, more fun, lots eau d'vie. pretty good doin's, I t'ink, yas. Everybody been happy, everybody but John Quixote, dat's me. At dinner, everybody's been talk at one tam, Franca, Anglishe, all mix up togedder. Rosie she sit on de boss-table, along wit' de odder visitors an' de boss an'—say!—dat Coderre he sit dere, too—been hinvited by de boss! Ant dat been tuf for John Quixote?
“Dat Coderre, you know, he joke, laugh, talk loud, mak big story how strong he been, how he ant nevaire been lick by nobody, how dere ant no man on de reever can break jam lak him, can run a log so good—he's tell how he been de whole cheeses. Everybody admire Coderre, Rosie more as all de rest—oh how I grind my tooth! I ant know if I eat pork, biscuit, bean-swagin', ognion—hit all taste alike to me, an' bitter, bitter, now I tole you!
“Now, you know, after dinner we all go out on de reever-bank, happy an' glad (all but me!) because de drive goin' for begin. De reever, you know, she mak one big bend by dat camp, an' sweep 'round wit' grand eemense current from de pool above to de dead-watter below; over a quarter of a mile she plunge down some big rocks, all sharp an' black an' jagged. In de dead-watter below de rapides lay de beginnin' of de log-crib, w'at stretch down-stream two mile. Well, we come out on de bank near de upper pool, above de rapides, for rest a little, an' talk, an' mebbe have some game for honor de visitors. Everybody been ready for good tam, some fun, except John Quixote, w'at been ready for murder. If John got for be de black sheep on dat compagnie, why for he ant mak it pay, hein? Oh, I tole you, de thoughts in my head been somet'ing terreeble! W'at a fine place dat been for murder, sure—dat high bank, mebbe twenty, thirty foot high, right over dat pool wit' de rapides w'at thunder an' foam an' throw de spray in rainbow, just a leetle down de stream!
“Somebody sing one song—everybody light up pip an' bad seegar; de boss even bring out some eau d'vie from de waun-gin-store an' pass him 'round. Everybody drink one glass, but I drink two, me, say I got headache. An' dat eau d'vie mak my blood run lak she's been fire in my heart! After some talk an' laugh, Rosie she's raise her voice, singin'
“Allouette, genti' alouette,
Alouette, je te plumerai!
Je te plumerai le bec,
Je te plumerai le dos,
Et les pattes
Et les-sz-ailes!”
an' everybody (but me!) join in de chorus.
“Alouette, genti' alouet-te,
Alouette, je te plumerai!”
Dey plume dat poor misfortunate bird till, by gar, dey take pretty much every las' feather off heem! Say, I feel sympathetique for dat lark, me—I know just 'bout how he must feel, ba gollee!
“Say, tout à coup dat Coderre, his face all red an' flushed, jump an' holler:
“Now dat de lady she's mak some amusement for us, it's de place some man show w'at he can do! I challenge anybody run one log cross de pool, over an' back, for one month's pay! Anybody take me up, my money against his money?'
“Everybody look surprise', but ant nobody say a word. Dat's pretty hard trick, yas, sir, stand on slippery log, spin it wit' de feet, an' mak it go anywhere, lak tame cheval! Hard anywhere, an' dangereuse, but just foolishness in place lak dat pool, right above some rapides lak on de reever! Only man w'at swim lak fish tackle any such t'ing—nobody ant say nothin', only look an' wonder.
“'You try it, 'Poleon?' ask Coderre 'No? Well, you, boss? No, again? P'raps Jean-Qui-Saute try it, hein?'
“Everybody laugh, Rosie more as anybody—she know I ant swim one stroke—everybody know it. De blood go lak it bust my face, an' I tr-ramble wit' rage; but I keep still, say nothin', try for mak believe I t'ink it's some good joke, too, an' laugh—such a sick laugh w'at it been! 'Zut!' I think, 'perhaps he try it, perhaps he get drowned, all right—den I get my vengeance, sure t'ing!' So I keep quiet, let de bully be de whole t'ing, hope he's goin' for get kill himself pretty quick right off.
“Well, mossieur, dat Coderre he's got de nerve, all right, I say dat much for him. He throw his p'inted cap on de ground, take pick-pole, slide down de steep bank to de pool, mak one jump an' land on beeg hemlock log w'at been lyin' by de shore, push off into de current. De log she's swing some, when she feel de pull of it, but Coderre he's spin her wit' de feet, balance himself wit' de pick-pole, guide an' steer dat hemlock just lak she been a boat, wit' him rowin' it. Everybody look down at him, everybody cheer; Coderre he's spin an' guide de log—bimeby, in four, five minute he's beach de hemlock on de odder bank.
“'Hola!'—he's shout, wavin' his hand, 'dat's facile for me! Now I goin' for show you somet'ing w'at no odder man on de reever been capab' to do—I run dat log back without pick-pole, an' barefoot!”'
“You ant goin' believe it, mossieur, but Coderre, dat bully, he's sit down on de log, unlace his shoes an' throw 'em on de bank, chuck his pick-pole after de boots an' stand up again, barefoot, just balance wit' his arms, hang on by his toes on de rough bark, w'at been all wet an' slippery. It mak some of de fellers cry out 'Stop! Stop! Don't try dat, right above de rapides! Gare!' But dat Coderre he's only laugh, wave his hand to Rosie, an' run up an' down de log lak he's been one squirrel. Den he spin de log again, roll her in de watter back again toward de camp shore.
“De current begin for get good grip on de log, now, mak her drift pretty fast down toward de rapides, but Coderre ant care none; he's sure of w'at he can do, he know how he can mak de log mind him just lak she's been tame animal. On an' on he come, steady, sure—by gar, I mos' have for admire dat feller myself, dough I been hope, how I been hope he goin' for get drowned right off! It most look lak he's goin' reach de shore—he's just strike de place where de current run so fast, 'bout sixty foot from de bank, when w'at you t'ink? Pan! his foot strike some piece wet, slimy moss on de log, his lags fly up, his head flop down, an'—splash! he's in de reever, gone under de watter—only de log been dere, drawin' an' drawin' down towards de foam an' rocks an' thunder of de rapides!
“Big, eemense yell go up from everybody—even me! How everybody been scare—how I been happy, yas, sir! Some run, jump down de bank for get bateau some run for rope, some only holler. Rosie been one w'at only holler—holler an' run down along de reever-side, lookin' for see where Coderre come up. Nobody ant see nothin' of heem, for a minute or two, only a big lot of foam an' bubbles—den he come up, blowin', an' strike out for de odder shore, w'at been good hundred fifty feet away. De current pull an' pull an' twist him 'round—he see he ant goin' for mak dat odder shore, so he turn an' swim lak madman for de camp—much nearer, but de current she's been somet'ing fierce where he been now, I goin' tole you! And me, ant I been happy, hein? I guess!
“'Back! Go back!' yell de boss, an' 'Back! Back!' echo Rosie, white lak some mouchoir. 'Come along!' 'Hurry!' holler some odders; 'Stay dere!' 'Hold on!' 'Rope's comin'!' scream still some more—but now Coderre he's gettin' out of reach—he's goin' fast down de current, he's swim, fight, blow, struggle in de watter, all smooth an' oily, w'at's pull him faster, faster—down toward where she break to foam an' thunder on de rocks—faster, almost, as what I run on de bank over his head, so glad, so happy for see him get w'at he's deserve! Say, dat's pretty bad place for any man, eh? Even de best swimmer ant got no show; if he ant kill on de rocks, but only stunned, de reever goin' suck him under de log-crib, sure, an' it's solid log for two mile! Everybody been runnin' down de edge of de bank, same lak me, all chatterin' at once—Rosie she run, too, an' now she's blue-color—her eye been lak some cow's eye w'en you take away de calf, hein? Coderre he bubble an' fight an' swim; de current swing him close in shore, right under de bank. I run ahead; he swing 'round one, two tam in kind of eddy; I lean over, look down, right on de edge of de bank, see? I want for watch how de first chute fix him, see whether he's goin' drown or get écrasé on some rock, or how. Look! Now he's comin'—now he's slide down de first long, steep saut! He holler; throw up his hand; I see his face, pale, twisted; he go down, down, an'—
“'Jump! Save him!'
Rosie's voice—loud, shrill, right behind me—thrill through me lak hèlectric shock—an' w'at you t'ink, hein? I be blessed, mistaire, if I ant spring, leap, jump lak jumpin'-jack, right out in de air, out over dat high bank, an' down on de watter, ker-soush, me, in de rapides, all smother an' roar, an' foam, ice-cold, too—an, me w'at ant been capab' for swim one stroke! Sacré bleu, such a t'ing!
“Down I go, way under de watter, bubble—bubble—bubble—strangle choke—an' up I come, whirlin', blow de watter out my lungs an' catch one half a breath an' go down again, sweepin' along for de rocks, dis way, dat way, round an' round, over an' under, top-side bottom—somet'ing terreeble—whoosh!
“I fight, struggle, throw out de hands; an' say, mistaire, you ant need for believe me, but I tole you de true, my fingers ketch holt on somet'ing—I grab it, an' w'at you t'ink? Hit been de shirt of dat Coderre! Yas, sir, right by de shirt back I catch him, between de shoulder, an' we go rush an' tumble down de rapides togedder, him an' me w'at hate each odder lak poison! I hang on wit' all my strength, for get saved myself: but funny t'ing, Coderre he ant swim none, ant struggle lak me—he's been hit his head on some stone an' go insenseless, limp, wopsed round in de whirl lak dishrag. all through dat foam, rush, thunder, spray, ice-cold rapides.
“Oof! Somet'ing knock de wind out of me—a rock w'at I dash on wit' my chest. One arm she whip round dat rock; de odder hand she's hold on lak death to de shirt of Coderre. Why for? Mon Di, how [ know? I mus' been crazee, dat's all, for hang on to dat feller! Say, mistaire, w'at a pull, hein? Dat reever she's drag at me lak ten meelion diables, tryin' for whirl me down to de bottom, batter my brain out, tryin' for wrench away dat Coderre—wrench, tug, pull! Euh-h-h! I grunt hard, grind my tooth, hang on de rock lak leech—an' over me, over Coderre boil an' roar dat watter, black, cold, heavy, fast—bon Dieu, how fast she's run.
“How long dat last? I ant been capab' for tole you, mossieur—all w'at I know is dat after long, long tam I hear some noise, some yell; an' den, pretty soon, bateau she's come down de rapides pretty slow, at de end one long rope. T'ree men been in her—de boss, an' foreman, an' one Hamerican feller. An' say, mistaire, w'en dey lift me an' him on dat bateau, I cave in, you know, lak I been made from soft mud. And I ant know not'ing, rien, for two, t'ree hour, no sir, ba gollee!
“You stay for souper, mossieur? Now, now, you ant got for hurry—dat's only one big hexcuse what you geeve me. You stay for souper, meet ma femme, dat same Rosie, w'at been marry wit' me four year summer-behind-next. She been pretty sure tole you how she ant been capab' resist me w'en I been such a brave fellers, get praise' by everybody, mak everybody talk so much. I can't tole you dat myself, for I been too modest, me; but Rosie she tell you all right, sure! Stay for souper, hear all 'bout our weddin', de finest weddin' ever on dis paroisse; hear how her hold man give us dis house, dis land, so I ant nevaire work on de reever again: hear how Coderre he's still been lumberjack, an' not even foreman yet! You better stay; we been goin' for have wood chuck, dat's so, all cook in his own fat. An' woodchuck, now I tole you, you take woodchuck, roast him, baste him, put planty patates all round an' butter on top, planty spice an' ognion, an' I just so soon have chicken as have him!
“Dere ant only one t'ing better as woodchuck—dat's lean back in de rockin'-chair, smoke my pip, an' hear Rosie tell how I been one gr-r-rand eemense hero, dat tam I reesk my life for save my rival in de rapides, just because de girl we both been fight for yell 'Save heem!' in my ear, and I been jumpin' Frenchmans.”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse