The elder was Monsieur Amable Poussette, owner of the sawmill at Bois Clair and proprietor of the summer hotel, a French Canadian by birth and descent and in appearance, but in clothes, opinions, and religious belief a curious medley of American and Canadian standards. Notwithstanding the variety of his occupations, one of which was supposed to debar him from joining the Methodist Church, he was an ardent member of that community. The younger man was a Methodist preacher, working as yet on the missionary circuit, and to him M. Poussette was holding forth with round black eyes rolling at the landscape and with gestures inimitably French.
"See, now," he was saying, standing perilously near the wet edge of rock, "there is no difficult thing! I own the ground. I give the money. I have it to give. My friend Romeo Desnoyers, of Three Rivers, he shall come at this place, at this point, and build the church. It will be for a great convenience, a great success. My guests, they will attend. I myself will see to that. I shall drive them over."
The younger man smiled faintly. It was necessary at times to restrain M. Poussette. He pulled him back now, but gently, from the slippery rock.
"In the summer—yes, of course, I see that. I see that it is needed then. The rest of the year——"
"The rest of the year! Bigosh—excusez,—I tell you, it is needed all the year round. Look at that big ugly barn full of bad pictures—yes, sir, I went to Mass regular, when I was a boy—petit garçon—well, every one was the same, sure. But now, ah!—excuse me. A seegar? Yes? You will thry one?"
The minister declined, but M. Poussette lit one of a large and overfragrant variety, while he frowned at the fall, rolled his large eyes around again and finally led the way through thick underbrush and across fallen logs to the deeply-rutted highroad where a horse and caleche awaited them. The prospective church builder took a long last look and then said:—
"And you—you shall preach the first sermon. How long does it take to build nice church, nice pretty Methodist church—not like that big stone barn I used to go to Mass in?"
At this the Reverend Joshua Ringfield did more than smile. He threw back his fine head and laughed heartily.
"Oh—Poussette!" he cried; "you're the funniest fellow, the funniest man alive! Ask somebody else how long it takes to build any kind of church—how should I know! But if you're in earnest, and I admire you for it if you are, and I wish there were more like you, I'll come and do the preaching with pleasure. You'll require a bigger man than I am, I'm afraid though."
"No, no," pronounced Poussette with fierce and friendly emphasis, driving away at a reckless pace. "See now, this is it. This is my affair. It will be my church, and my friend, Mister Romeo Desnoyers of Three Rivers, shall build it. Bigosh—excusez; I'll have only friends in it; you're my friend, I am good Methodist since I hear you preach, and Goddam,—well, excusez again, sir, I'll have you and no other. We'll say July, and you will have one, two, three months to get the sermon ready. Get on there, m'rch donc, animal-l-l! I am too long away from my business."