"Phat the blank, blank is this yellin' about? Phat d'ye mane swearin' loike that, Patsy? Oi'll knock yer blank little head aff if Oi catch ye swearin' agin.""I don't care," stormed little Patsy, quite unafraid of his father when the other children fled."It's that blank, blank Batcheese an'
Tim there.They keep teasin' me an' Mayan all the time""Let me catch yez, ye little divils!" shouted Carroll after the children, who had got off to a safe distance."Go on, Marion, an'
sing phat ye loike.It's loike a burrd ye are, an' Oi loikes t' hear ye.An' Patsy, too, eh?"He took the little cripple up in his arms very gently and held him for some minutes.
"You're a big man, dad, aint ye?" said Patsy, putting his puny arm round his father's hairy neck."An' ye can lick the hull town, can't ye?""Who wuz tellin' ye that, Patsy?" asked his father, with a smile.
"I heard ye meself last week when the big row was on.""Ye did, be dad! Thin Oi'm thinkin' ye do be hearin' too much.""But ye can, dad, can't ye?" persisted the boy.
"Well, Oi'll stick to phat Oi said, anyway, Patsy boy," replied his father.
"An' I'll be a big man like you, dad, some day, an' lick the hull town, won't I?" asked Patsy eagerly.
His father shuddered and held him close to his breast.
"I will, dad, won't I?" persisted the lad, the little face turned anxiously toward his father.
"Whisht now, laddie.Sure an' ye'll be the clivir man some day,"said the big man huskily, while his wife turned her face toward the door.
"But they said I'd niver lick anybody," persisted Patsy."An' that's a blank lie, isn't it, dad?"The man's face grew black with wrath.He poured out fierce oaths.
"Let me catch thim.Oi'll break their backs, the blank, blank little cowards! Niver ye heed thim.Ye'll be a betther man thin any av thim, Patsy avick, an' that ye will.An' they'll all be standin'
bare-headed afore ye some day.But Patsy, darlin', Oi want ye to give up the swearin' and listen to Marion yonder, who'll be afther tellin' ye good things an' cliver things.""But, dad," persisted the little boy, "won't I be?
"Hush now, Patsy," said his father hurriedly."Don't ye want to go on the pony with Marion? Come on now, an' Oi'll put ye up.""Oh, goody, goody!" shouted little Patsy, his pale, beautiful face aglow with delight.
"Poor little manny!" groaned Carroll to his wife, looking after the pair as they rode off up the trail."It's not many ye'll be after lickin', except with yer tongue.""But, begorra," said his wife, "that's the lickin' that hurts, afther all.An' it's harrd tellin' what'll be comin' till the lad."Her husband turned without more words and went into the house.
Meantime Marion and Patsy were enjoying their canter.
"Take me up to the Jumping Rock," said the boy, and they took the trail that wound up the west side of the lake.
"There now, Patsy," said Marion, when they had arrived at a smooth shelf of rock that rose sheer out of the blue water of the lake, "I'll put you by the big spruce there, and you can see all over the lake and everywhere."She slipped off the pony, carefully lifted the boy down and set him leaning against a big spruce pine that grew seemingly up out of the bare rock and leaned far out over the water.This was the swimming place for the boys and men of the village; and an ideal place it was, for off the rock or out of the overhanging limbs the swimmers could dive without fear into the clear, deep water below.
"There now, Patsy," said the girl after she had picketed her pony, "shall I tell you a story?""No.Sing, Mayan, I like you to sing."
But just as the girl was about to begin he cried, "Who's that comin', Mayan?" pointing down the trail.
The keen eyes of the lad had descried a horseman far away where the long slope rose to the horizen.
"I don't know," answered the girl."Who is it, Patsy? A cowboy?""No," said Patsy, after waiting for a few minutes, "I think it's Perault.""No, Patsy, that can't be.You know Perault went out with father last week.""Yes, it is," insisted Patsy."That's father's pony.That's Rat-tail, I know."
The girl stood up and gazed anxiously at the approaching rider.
"Surely it can't be Perault," she said to herself."What can have happened?"She unhitched her horse, rolled up her picket rope, and stood waiting with disturbed face.As the rider drew near she called, "Perault! Ho, Perault!""Hola!" exclaimed Perault, a wizened, tough-looking little Frenchman, pulling up his pony with a jerk "Bo jou, Mam'selle," he added, taking off his hat.
Perault's manner is reassuring, indeed quite gay.
"What is it, Perault? Why are you come back? Where is father?" The girl's lips were white.
