“Which is Rafe Gadbeau?” she suddenly asked Cynthe Cardinal. “I want to know him.”
“Why for you want to know him?” the girl asked sharply in English.
“Oh, nothing,” said Ruth carelessly, “only I’ve heard of him.”
The other girl reached out into the crowd and plucked at the sleeve of a tall, beak-nosed man. The man was evidently flattered by Ruth’s request, and wanted her to dance with him immediately.
“No,” said Ruth, “I do not know how to dance your dances, and we’d only break up the sets if I tried to learn now. We’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Gadbeau, so, of course, I wanted to know you. And we’ve heard some things about Jeffrey Whiting. I’m sure you could tell me if they are true.”
“You don’ dance? Well, we sit then. I tell you. One rascal, this young Whiting!”
Ruth bit back an angry protest, and schooled herself to listen quietly as he led her to a seat.
As they left the other girl standing in the middle of the platform, Ruth, looking back, caught 93 a swift glance of what she knew was jealous anger in her eyes. Ruth was sorry. She did not want to make an enemy of this girl. But she felt that she must use every effort to get this man to tell her all he would.
“One rascal, I tell you,” repeated Gadbeau. “First he stop all the people. He say don’ sell nodding. Den he sell his own farm, him. He sell some more; he got big price. Now he skip the country, right out. An’ he leave these poor French people in the soup.
“But I”––he sat back tapping himself on the chest––“I got hinfluence with that railroad. They buy now from us. To-morrow morning, nine o’clock, here comes that railroad lawyer on French Village. We sell out everything on the option to him.”