“If you looked over the list of Mounties that have come and gone up in the bleak northland of Canada, you’d find many a LeClare,” the Captain explained. “They’re that sort.”
Johnny saw a shadow pass over Mrs. LeClare’s face. Alice looked quickly away.
“You’ll have to excuse us,” Mrs. LeClare explained after a moment of silence. “We’re in the midst of things. Make yourselves comfortable by the fire.”
Just what sort of things the ladies were in the midst of, Johnny could guess well enough. The kitchen was not too far away—one great advantage of a small house—and from it came savory odors, meat roasting, pumpkin pies baking, apple sauce simmering.
“They can cook,” said the Captain, dropping into a chair with the air of a contented dog. “These Canadian French can cook. And what workers they are, these people!
“The boys will be here soon,” he went on. “Madame LeClare’s boys. They’re out selling their magazines. Fine boys—poor old Jack’s boys.” His voice dropped.
“Who is Jack?” Johnny asked.
“What? Didn’t I tell you?” The Captain sat up. “But of course I didn’t.
“They’re not Jack’s boys any more,” he rumbled after a moment. “Poor old Jack is dead. Finest, squarest cop that ever walked a beat. Real name was Jacques—French you know. We called him Jack.
“Wish you could have known him, Johnny. You’d have loved him.” He stared at the fire.