"Who told you that I talked French?" asked Bob.
"Father told me some time ago," answered Bill. "He said that you could talk it like a native."
"I could a few years ago, but I'm rusty now, as I haven't talked French for at least five years," replied Bob.
"They don't talk real French here anyway," said Pud.
"Oh, yes, they do," said Bill. "It's a kind of dialect, but father tells me that it is much easier to understand a French-Canadian than many of the French people from Paris."
"That's very true," said Bob. "My father, as I've told you before, has been up in the Lake St. John region, and he says that he gets along quite well with the inhabitants. He says that they have some peculiar expressions, but that it is quite easy to talk to them as they speak a pretty pure dialect of French."
They were soon off again, now headed for Quebec. They got a seat in the dining-car and watched the scenery as they rode along. They found the quaint little Canadian cottages of the habitants much like the farmers' homes in New England. The land was rolling and, as usual, they followed the course of some river. As they went along, they heard less and less English and Bob was often called on to translate the cries that were heard at the different stations.
"I'll soon get my French back up here," said Bob. "They seem to talk pretty good French. I can understand them quite easily."
About ten o'clock, they came into a hilly country and found evidences of mining being carried on. On Bob's inquiring, they found that they were asbestos mines and that it was practically a new industry for this part of Canada. They also noted that many new farms were being cleared by the young Frenchmen and that much lumber was being transported both by the rivers and the railroad. The look of the people was quite foreign by this time and the boys felt that they were indeed in a foreign land.
"Have you ever been in Toronto?" suddenly asked Bill.