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Updated: May 26, 2025
"I didn't think to ask you. Most Canadians don't drink anything else." "No, thanks. I like coffee," Hazel replied. "You're not a true-blue Canuck, then," Bill observed. "Indeed, I am," she declared. "Aren't you a Canadian?" "Well, I don't know that the mere accident of birth in come particular locality makes any difference," he answered.
The thronging crowds, the gay flags, the merry bands, and the ringing cheers, were a welcome greeting for the little knot of war-worn men who had fought so loyally for queen and country. "The stocky little Canuck!" as everyone now called Billy Jackson, was almost the last to alight from the train.
Yes, it was he; there was no doubt about that; the brutal, obstinate face had altered very little in twenty years. Twenty years? It was all of that since he had seen old "Ed" Dubois betting his gold-dust on an Indian horse race twenty years since young Dick Kincaid had floundered through the drifts in a mountain pass to see how the Canuck saved flour gold.
"Judging from your success in starting other riots this evening, I ought to have guessed that you were in the neighborhood." "My arrival had nothing whatever to do with the demonstration, Senator. Go on, Duchesne!" "I jomped myself," stammered the soldier, a particularly crestfallen Canuck. "I see you don't grasp the idea," Morrison hastened to put in.
He punched in a glass partition to emphasise a filthy remark he had made to the head engineer. He went after me, to bully and domineer me, next. It looked as if we were in for a hard voyage to the Georgian Bay. The Canuck, at the very first meal, terrorised the crew that sat down with him. I looked him over carefully, and realised that something must be done.
I can tell you this, though, keep sharp watch of a man called Lafe Green. He is a great big red-haired man, and he hangs around that restaurant that is run by a man called Joe Canuck. It's practically the only one in town, perhaps you know of it." "We do know of it, and we sure thank you for what you have told us, and you will never regret it. Sometime we can tell you more about all this.
Down from this hair the light slipped like running water over a lithe body, slender at the hips, strong-chested, round and smooth of limb, with long muscles everywhere leaping and trembling at every move. He, like the big Canuck, circled cautiously about, but the impression he gave was as different from the other as day is from night.
We might ha' had more sense; or she would, anyway. But she was over to Lovewell stockin' up for Thanksgivin', and I had to make out the best I could, with Frank and Jombateeste. Why, that Canuck didn't seem to have no more head on him than a hen. I was disgusted; but Cynthy wouldn't let me say anything to him, and I d' know as 't 'ould done any good, myself.
He was that Canuck I had helpin' me clear that piece over on Lion's Head for the pulp-mill; pulp- mill went all to thunder, and I never got a cent. And sometimes Jackson comes down with his plantchette, and we have a good time." "Jackson still believes in the manifestations?" "Yes. But he's never developed much himself. He can't seem to do much without the plantchette.
Ye're a liar and a coward, Peavey Jo, and a dirty one at that." "Keep quiet, McGinnis," said Merritt, who was stooping down over the insensible lad, "we'll put him in jail for this." "Ye will, maybe," snorted the Irishman, "afther he laves the hospital." "You make dis your bizness, hey?" queried the mill-owner. "I'll make it your funeral, ye sneaking half-breed Canuck!
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