“Oui, we queet,” the man said, and the others nodded assent.
“What’s wrong?” the foreman demanded. “Grub no good?”
“Grub, she ver’ bon.”
“Work too hard? Wages too small?”
Again the man shook his head.
“Work no hard, pay, she ver’ bon, but camp, she got haunt. Devaux, him see it. We hear eet las’ night. Stay here mebby all die ver’ queek.”
As the man finished speaking Tom burst out in violent laughter, though it was evident to the boys that he was forcing it.
“Sure an’ it’s three old wimin ye are, to be scared away from a good job by a bit of noise. Thar’s no haunt here at all an’ we’re goin’ ter prove it. Now listen ter me. I’m a goin’ ter make a spache tonight at suppertime, an’ if yer want yer time after thot come ter me an’ ye’ll git it.”
“It’s mighty plain thot idjet of a Devaux’s bin talking,” he said as soon as the men had left the office. “Sure an’ it’s a wonder ter me thot more of ’em didn’t come. I’ve got ter make the spache of me life tonight or thar’ll be doin’s afore morning, I’m thinkin’.”
The most of the men had finished their supper when Tom Bean rose from his seat at the head of the table and pounded on his plate with his knife. Instantly the talking stopped and he began: