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By virtue of their logging-contract with Pennington, the Cardigans and their employees were transported free over Pennington's logging railroad; hence, when Bryce Cardigan resolved to wait upon Jules Rondeau in the matter of that murdered Giant, it was characteristic of him to choose the shortest and most direct route to his quarry, and as the long string of empty logging-trucks came crawling off the Laguna Grande Lumber Company's log-dump, he swung over the side, quite ignorant of the fact that Shirley and her precious relative were riding in the little caboose in the rear.
As soon as he entered the room, he called out, "Here, master, I’ve got ’em this time!" at the same time extending a letter, the superscription of which made Dr. Lacey turn pale, for he recognized, as he supposed, Fanny’s delicate handwriting. "You may leave me alone, Rondeau," said he, "and I will ring for you when I want you." So Rondeau departed with the remaining letter in his pocket.
It had been there two weeks, and he didn’t know what in cain to do with it. If he gave it to marster now, ’twould make him lose faith in him, and so forth." Leffie heard him through, and then fully agreed with him that ’twas best not to tell marster at this late hour. "But," said she, "I’d put it out of the way, so ’twouldn’t be poppin’ out in sight some time." "Shall I burn it?" asked Rondeau.
While he's been away somebody taught him the hammer-lock and the crotch-hold and a few more fancy ones, and he got to work on Rondeau in a hurry. In fact, he had to, for if the tussle had gone over five minutes, Rondeau's youth would have decided the issue." "And Rondeau was whipped?" "To a whisper.
"A long lean man with all his limbs rambling no way to reduce him to compass, unless you could double him like a pocket rule with his arms spread, he'd lie on the bed of Ware like a cross on a Good Friday bun standing still, he is a pilaster without a base he appears rolled out or run up against a wall so thin that his front face is but the moiety of a profile if he stands cross-legged, he looks like a caduceus, and put him in a fencing attitude, you will take him for a piece of chevaux- de-frise to make any use of him, it must be as a spontoon or a fishing- rod when his wife's by, he follows like a note of admiration see them together, one's a mast, and the other all hulk she's a dome and he's built like a glass-house when they part, you wonder to see the steeple separate from the chancel, and were they to embrace, he must hang round her neck like a skein of thread on a lace-maker's bolster to sing her praise you should choose a rondeau, and to celebrate him you must write all Alexandrines.
With a heave and a grunt Rondeau lifted his antagonist, and the pair went crashing to the earth together, Bryce underneath. And then something happened. With a howl of pain, Rondeau rolled over on his back and lay clasping his left wrist in his right hand, while Bryce scrambled to his feet.
How long Aunt Dilsey might have gone expounding Scripture is not known, for Rondeau interrupted her by saying, "Don’t scold so, old lady. Marster ain’t a-goin’ to care for I’ve got him something this time better than victuals or drink." "What is it?" said Leffie, coming forward. "Have you got him a letter from Kentuck?"
But a rough-and-tumble was exactly what Bryce was striving to avoid; hence when Rondeau rushed, Bryce side-stepped and peppered the woodsman's ribs. But the woods-crew, which by now was ringed around them, began to voice disapproval of this style of battle. "Clinch with him, dancing-master," a voice roared. "Tie into him, Rondeau," another shouted.
Nothing more was known by the blacks until many days after, when Rondeau returned home, and related the whole story with many embellishments. He omitted to tell of the whipping which Ike had given him, but spoke with unqualified contempt of the old house and everything belonging to it, except Miss Fanny, who, he said, "Looked just like an angel, only a heap better."
Sexton, who still lingered, made a gesture of surrender. "Dismiss your crew, Rondeau," he ordered. "We're whipped to a frazzle." A gleam of pleasure, not unmixed with triumph, lighted the dark eyes of the French-Canadian. "I tol' M'sieur Sexton she cannot fight M'sieur Cardigan and win," he said simply, "Now mebbe he believe that Jules Rondeau know somet'ing." "Shut up," Sexton roared petulantly.
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