So, with the governor, he advanced up the broken road to the river, which must be crossed to go up the valley. The river was two feet deep. There were crossing-stones placed for him, but he was stout and they were three feet apart. One must jump from one stone to the other. The governor, in boots, plunged into the purling rill. The inspector cried to the governor, “Mais, mon brave, prenez garde aux accidents!”
“It is not dangerous,” said the governor, who in five strides had reached the other bank.
“But I may get my shoes wet,” said the inspector.
“It is better to take them off,” advised the governor.
“Yes, that is true. Naturally one removes one’s shoes when one crosses a river on foot. And, in such a case as this, one must take chances. It is imperative that I inspect the schoolhouse. Mais, nom d’un chien! Where shall I sit to take off my shoes?”
The governor suggested a certain boulder, but it was too low; another was too high. But, after inspecting many boulders, one was found that suited the embonpoint of the big man. He bent over, then looked at the river, and sat up straight.
“It is a wooden schoolhouse?” he queried.
“Yes, plain wood,” said the executive.
“And, par conséquence, it has a roof and a floor and sides, and maybe some wooden desks for the scholars. Steps to enter, n’est-ce pas? And a tableau noir, to write the alphabet on. As a matter of fact, there is little difference between schoolhouses. You have seen that schoolhouse, mon ami?
“Oui, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, I have seen it. It is exactly as you describe it. Très simple, and the blackboard is there, but a trifle disfigured.”