“Quick, Maquette! Hit him with an axe; he can’t watch the both of us!” said the factor.
Jules spoke again: “Maquette, your faddaire an’ my faddaire dey mak’ la chasse togedder lon’ before dees compagnie she comme een our territoire; Maquette, Jules no vant hurrt the son h’of hees faddaire’s fr’en’. You go h’out, Maquette, n’est-ce pas?”
The old man turned, and went out of the store.
“Marche, M’sieu’ le Facteur; en avant!” The incongruous pair went down the steps and out into the yard; Jules deftly picked up his snow-shoes, and the factor tried to turn off at the gate.
“Ve go een forêt,” said Jules, persuasively.
The children stopped their play and stared; then they scampered away with loud cries.
Across the clearing the two went; then down a wood road till it ended, and on into the woods. Beads of perspiration stood on the factor’s neck and face, and his arms drooped every now and then, when Jules would say quietly, “Han’s hup, M’sieu’ le Facteur!”
They went on thus for a long time, twisting and turning through the timber, the factor breathing in hoarse gasps, and barely dragging one foot after the other in the wet snow. Jules had been quietly preparing a noosed thong, and now he stepped up behind his prisoner and tossed it over the upheld arms, drawing it tight with a jerk.
“Ve stop maint’nant,” he said.
The factor swayed and would have fallen had not Jules caught him and backed him against a tree. He then passed a thong under the Irishman’s chin, and made that fast around the trunk, holding him up. He had to stand upright, because when he relaxed his legs the thong choked him. Then Jules unwound the wooden muffler from his own throat and neatly cut a strip from it with the sharp knife. “H’open mout’!” he ordered.