Bob looked startled and a little reluctant, but Alice gave the invitation without waiting for him to object.
“Mademoiselle is as good as ze angels,” said Mrs. Larue. “Certainely we be glad to go, is it not, Baptiste?”
“Maybe it rain for two—tree days,” said the squatter, regarding the sky. “Put ze fire out—good! But zis is terrible poor camp. Oui, we go, and many t’anks!”
He put some of his most perishable possessions in his boat, covered the rest well with bark and boughs, and took his family on board. It was raining in torrents when they passed the clearing again on their way back, and everything was a mist of smoke, steam, and rain. But both the house and barn were still standing, and did not appear to be now on fire.
It was a pretty tight fit for seven of them in the Harmans’ cabin, and rather a severe strain on the larder. But Bob went down to the river and caught a dozen trout. Larue sallied into the woods and came back in an hour, soaked like a sponge, but bringing with him five partridges. Mrs. Larue lent a hand at the cookery, and they produced a meal that was at any rate abundant.
All that afternoon it rained, and, as Bob said, every drop was worth a dollar to that imperiled forest country.
“We’ll be able to put our bees back off the island as soon as it lets up,” said Carl. “The ground’ll be cooled off pretty well again. You know, Larue,” he added, “we had a fire of our own yesterday. Nearly burned up our bees at the lake.”
“Yes, and we fancied we saw you through the smoke. But most likely it wasn’t,” said Bob.
Larue had been talking volubly and gaily, but his face suddenly fell.
“Yes, I guess you see me,” he said, looking sheepish. “By gar, I am a beast, an assassin. But I have some bad viskey in me yesterday, and I know no better.”