"Well," said Jean, "you surprise me, Paddy Brady. I am disappointed in you. But the log must go. Saint Jean to my aid. Watch me, Paddy."
With that Jean bent down, his arms between his knees, his fingers gripping the log like a vice, and as he rose the log rose, slowly, steadily, until Jean stood erect holding the great trunk in his iron grip. Taking a long breath he put forth a mighty effort and lifted the log by the strength of his arms alone, inch by inch, until it reached the height of a man and rested for a moment on his shoulder. Then, taking hold lower down, Jean raised the log with ease until it stood upright, when, with a slight push, he sent it crashing down the cliff to the rocks below.
"My God!" said Paddy, with a gasp. "What a lift! I feel as though all my bones were cracked. Jean Baptiste, my bully boy, it's the strong man of the world you are. Give me your hand, man alive. From now on I'm your friend, and it's sorry I am for what has happened. Forgive me, Jean, and Tom too. He meant you no harm."
"Say nothing, Paddy," said Jean, with a smile. "I am well content to have a friend like you. But your cousin--I fear that I have hurt him. Tom, my friend, I was too rough and I am sorry. Forgive me."
Tom Sullivan made no reply, but glared at his enemy like a wounded bear.
"Tom," persisted Jean, "will you not let me drive you home? As to the contract, you shall have it. I will give it up."
"Give it up, you damned thief? Yes, when I kill you. Forgive you? Yes, when you are in Hell!"
"But, Tom----"
"The curse o' Crummle on you!" snarled Tom, turning his face away in bitterness of soul.
CHAPTER VIII