Anderson, laughingly, "but I say it was
the result of a broken string."
Maurice of His Majesty's Mails
Old Maurice Delorme boasted the blood of many nations; his "bulldog"
grit came to him from an English sea-captain, a bluff, genial old tar
whom he could recall as being his "grand-daddy" sixty years ago; his
gay, rollicking love of laughter and song came to him through his half
French father; his love of wood and water lore, his endurance, his gift
of strategy, were his birthright directly from his Red Indian mother;
consequently there was but one place in the world where such a trinity
of nationalities could be fostered in one man, but one place where that
man could breathe and be happy, and that place was amid the struggling
heights and the yawning canyons of the Rocky Mountains.
Years before Canada had constructed her world-famous transcontinental
railroad, which now stretches its belt of steel from Atlantic to
Pacific, Maurice Delorme set out for the golden West, working his way
across the vast Canadian half of the American continent.
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