“Well, Rondeau,” Bryce hailed the woods-boss cheerfully, “I see you have quite recovered from that working over I gave you some time ago. No hard feelings, I trust. I shouldn't care to have that job to do over again. You're a tough one.”
“By gar, she don' pay for have hard feelings wiz you, M'sieur,” Rondeau answered bluntly. “We have one fine fight, but”--he shrugged--“I don' want some more.”
“Yes, by gar, an' she don' pay for cut other people's trees, M'sieur,” Bryce mimicked him. “I shouldn't wonder if I took the value of that tree out of your hide.”
“I t'enk so, M'sieur.” He approached Bryce and lowered his voice. “For one month I am no good all ze tam. We don' fight some more, M'sieur. And I have feel ashame' for dose Black Minorca feller. Always wiz him eet is ze knife or ze club--and now eet is ze rifle. COCHON! W'en I fight, I fight wiz what le bon Dieu give me.”
“You appear to have a certain code, after all,” Bryce laughed. “I am inclined to like you for it. You're sporty in your way, you tremendous scoundrel!”
“Mebbeso,” Rondeau suggested hopefully, “M'sieur likes me for woods-boss?”
“Why, what's the matter with Pennington? Is he tired of you?”
The colour mounted slowly to the woods bully's swarthy cheek. “Mademoiselle Sumnair, he's tell me pretty soon he's goin' be boss of Laguna Grande an' stop all thees fight. An' w'en Mademoiselle, he is in the saddle, good-bye Jules Rondeau. Thees country--I like him. I feel sad, M'sieur, to leave dose beeg trees.” He paused, looking rather wistfully at Bryce. “I am fine woods-boss for somebody,” he suggested hopefully.
“You think Miss Sumner dislikes you then, Rondeau?”
“I don' theenk. I know.” He sighed; his huge body seemed to droop. “I am out of zee good luck now,” he murmured bitterly. “Everybody, she hate Jules Rondeau. Colonel--she hate because I don' keel M'sieur Cardigan; Mademoiselle, he hate because I try to keel M'sieur Cardigan; M'sieur Sexton, she hate because I tell her thees mornin' she is one fool for fight M'sieur Cardigan.”
Again he sighed. “Dose beeg trees! In Quebec we have none. In zee woods, M'sieur, I feel--here!” And he laid his great calloused, hairy hand over his heart. “W'en I cut your beeg trees, M'sieur, I feel like hell.”