“Who’s for Lebanon?” cried the big river-driver with an oath. “Who’s for giving Lebanon hell, and ducking Ingolby in the river?”
“I am—I am—I am—all of us!” shouted the crowd. “It’s no good waiting for to-morrow. Let’s get the Lebs by the scruff to-night. Let’s break Ingolby’s windows and soak him in the Sagalac. Allons—allons gai!”
Uproar and broken sentences, threats, oaths, and objurgations sounded through the room. There was a sudden movement towards the door, but the exit of the crowd was stopped by a slow but clear voice speaking in French.
“Wait a minute, my friends!” it cried. “Wait a minute. Let’s ask a few questions first.”
“Who’s he?” asked a dozen voices. “What’s he going to say?” The mob moved again towards the bar.
The big river-driver turned on the grizzled old man beside the bar-counter with bent shoulders and lazy, drawling speech.
“What’ve you got to say about it, son?” he asked threateningly.
“Well, to ask a few questions first—that’s all,” the old man replied.
“You don’t belong here, old cock,” the other said roughly.
“A good many of us don’t belong here,” the old man replied quietly. “It always is so. This isn’t the first time I’ve been to Manitou. You’re a river-driver, and you don’t live here either,” he continued.