“But this here business is going too far,” continued Maclennan. “I didn't hire him to run my camps. Well, we'll see what Craigin has to say.”
As they drove into the camp they were met by Narcisse, the cook.
“Bo' jour, M'sieu Maclenn'. You want something for hit?”
“Good-day, cook,” said Maclennan. “Yes, we'll take a cup of tea in a few minutes. I want to see Mr. Craigin.”
Narcisse drew near Maclennan and in subdued voice announced, “M'sieu Craigin, he's not ver' well. He's hurt hisself. He's lie on bed.”
“Why, what's the matter with him?”
Narcisse shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, some leet' troub'. You pass on de office you see de docteur.”
“Why, Haines is up at the hospital. We just saw him.”
“Hain!” said Narcisse, with scorn indescribable. “Dat's no docteur for one horse. Bah! De mans go seeck, seeck, he can noting. He know noting. He's get on beeg drunk! Non! Nodder docteur. He's come in, fin' tree, four mans seeck on de troat, cough, cough, sore, bad. Fill up de cook-house. Can't do noting. Sainte Marie! Dat new docteur, he's come on de camp, he's mak' one leet' fight, he's beeld hospital an' get dose seeck mans all nice an' snug. Bon. Good. By gar, dat's good feller!”
The smile broadened on Fahey's face. “I say, Maclennan, he's captured your camp. He's got the cook, dead sure.”