"It is not an
age of miracles; the priest is not enough," he said sceptically.
By twos, by threes, by tens, men from Manitou came sauntering across the
bridge into Lebanon, until a goodly number were scattered at different
points through the town. They seemed to distribute themselves by a
preconceived plan, and they were all habitants. There were no Russians,
Finns, Swedes, Norwegians, or Germans among them. They were low-browed,
sturdy men, dressed in red or blue serge shirts, some with sashes around
their waists, some with ear-rings in their ears, some in knee-boots, and
some with the heavy spiked boots of the river-driver. None appeared to
carry any weapon that would shoot, yet in their belts was the
sheath-knife, the invariable equipment of their class. It would have
seemed more suspicious if they had not carried them. The railwaymen,
miners, carters, mill-hands, however, appeared to carry nothing save
their strong arms and hairy hands, and some were as hairy as animals.
These backwoodsmen also could, without weapons, turn a town into a
general hospital. In battle they fought not only with hands but also with
teeth and hoofs like wild stallions. Teeth tore off an ear or sliced away
a nose, hands smote like hammers or gouged out eyes, and their nailed
boots were weapons of as savage a kind as could be invented.
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