He gives money here, he gives it there. He wants the old town to stay as
it is and not be swallowed up."
"Three cheers for Felix Marchand!" cried some one in the throng. All
cheered loudly save one old man with grizzled hair and beard, who leaned
against the wall half-way down the room smoking a corncob pipe. He was a
French Canadian in dress and appearance, and he spat on the floor like a
navvy--he had filled his pipe with the strongest tobacco that one man
ever offered to another. As the crowd cheered for Felix Marchand, he made
his way up towards the bar slowly. He must have been tall when he was
young; now he was stooped, yet there was still something very sinewy
about him.
"Who's for Lebanon?" cried the big river-driver with an oath. "Who's for
giving Lebanon hell, and ducking Ingolby in the river?"
"I am--I am--I am--all of us!" shouted the crowd. "It's no good waiting
for to-morrow. Let's get the Lebs by the scruff to-night. Let's break
Ingolby's windows and soak him in the Sagalac. Allons--allons gai!"
Uproar and broken sentences, threats, oaths, and objurgations sounded
through the room. There was a sudden movement towards the door, but the
exit of the crowd was stopped by a slow but clear voice speaking in
French.
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