"Dat none your bus'nees. You go back."
"I will not go back!" declared Dale, his temper rising. "If you don't let go of that horse pretty quick, somebody will get hurt."
"Hah! You are von big fool!" snarled the man, and clung to the animal as tightly as ever. The horse began to prance, and, watching his chance, Dale leaned forward and struck the French-Canadian a sharp blow in the forehead that caused him to stagger back in dismay.
"Good for you!" sang out a voice not far off, and looking in the direction Dale saw a young man of twenty approaching. The newcomer was a young lumberman like himself, and Dale had met him several times, on the river and elsewhere.
"Hullo, Owen," replied Dale. "Who is this chap?"
"That is Baptiste Ducrot, one of the mill hands up here," replied Owen Webb. "Odell hired him about a month ago, but I guess he wishes he hadn't, for the rascal drinks like a fish."
"He says there is a strike on at the mill."
"So there is, among the Canadians. They wanted me to join, but I wouldn't do it."
While this talk was in progress, Baptiste Ducrot recovered himself and glared first at Dale and then at Owen Webb. Evidently he did not fancy the coming of his fellow workman to the spot. Dale now smelt the liquor on Ducrot and noticed that his steps were far from steady. He urged his horse forward, and left the French-Canadian standing in the road shaking his fist savagely.
"That was a neat crack you gave him," observed Owen Webb, as he strode along beside Dale. "I guess he won't forgive you for it."