“A sympathetic strike is what he calls it,” she rejoined.
“Yes, a row over some imagined grievance on the railway, and all the men in all the factories to strike—that’s the new game of the modern labour agitator! Marchand has been travelling in France,” he added disdainfully, “but he has brought his goods to the wrong shop. What do the priests—what does Monseigneur Lourde say to it all?”
“I am not a Catholic,” she replied gravely. “I’ve heard, though, that Monseigneur is trying to stop the trouble. But—” She paused.
“Yes—but?” he asked. “What were you going to say?”
“But there are many roughs in Manitou, and Felix Marchand makes friends with them. I don’t think the priests will be able to help much in the end, and if it is to be Manitou against Lebanon, you can’t expect a great deal.”
“I never expect more than I get—generally less,” he answered grimly; and he moved the gun about on his knees restlessly, fingering the lock and the trigger softly.
“I am sure Felix Marchand means you harm,” she persisted.
“Personal harm?”
“Yes.”
He laughed sarcastically again. “We are not in Bulgaria or Sicily,” he rejoined, his jaw hardening; “and I can take care of myself. What makes you say he means personal harm? Have you heard anything?”