"I've got to get you sober for to-morrow, you see. To-morrow's Sunday and I want to know about the music. If we are going to introduce our hymns to St. Ignace, you must help me to find some one to play the harmonium. Better be a lady. Do you know any one?"
But Poussette was not following. The mention of the priest had awakened a flood of memory.
"Father Rielle—I don't know if I like that one or not. One's enough, you're enough, Mr. Ringfield. Give Father Rielle a drink and let him go."
"I'm not talking about Father Rielle at all just now. I'm talking about our church and some one to play for us. And look here, Poussette, this returning of mine wasn't my own doing. I want you to know this. The man who wrote to me telegraphed afterwards—here's the message in my pocket—and you see I never got it. I'm here now and we must make the best of things. That fellow Crabbe mislaid the message or detained it knowingly, I can't tell which, and I don't like him, Poussette, I don't like his looks at all. He's a low fellow, always drunk, and if I were you I wouldn't be seen going about with him. I'm astonished at you, Poussette, with such a good businesss, two good businesses, you may say, well-to-do and prosperous as you are, keeping such a fellow on the premises. For I suppose he rents the shack from you. Well, I know I wouldn't have him round the place at all."
Poussette wagged his head in imbecile accord.
"Low fellow—Crabbe—marche donc—get off, animal, don' come my place 'tall."
"You know I'm talking right, Poussette. Get rid of Crabbe. And sober up now, man; don't let folks see you like this."
Ringfield put his arm through the other's and led him aside under a thick canopy of trees as a party of fishermen and Martin came along.
"Look here—I'll make a pillow for you, here, out of these balsam twigs! You lie down—that's it—and get a good sound sleep. Got a cigar? And a light? That's all right. Now, you sleep—yes, don't bother about the smoke now—just go to sleep and when you wake up, have your smoke, clear your head, shake yourself and show up at tea-time, straight and sober as I am! You'd better! Father Rielle's over for tea. You wouldn't like him to see you like this!"
Poussette collapsed on the improvised balsam couch, but managed to remark that he would not get up on account of Father Rielle, nor give him anything good to eat.