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Updated: June 8, 2025
The four men, by way of thanks raised the backs of their hands to their battered old three-cornered hats, discolored by rain and ragged with age, and bent their bodies double. One of them, named Larose, a corporal well-known to Hulot, remarked as he clicked his musket: "We'll play 'em a tune on the clarinet, commander."
Not a minute but scores of anxious eyes were turned searchingly up the river, down which the returning agent's canoe would first appear. With the dawn of this day O'Grady had refused to drink. He was stripped to the waist. His laugh was louder. Hatred as well as triumph glittered in his eyes, for to-day Jan Larose looked him coolly and squarely in the face, and nodded whenever he passed.
He groped his way to Jan's side, and their hands met in a clasp that told more than either could have expressed of the brotherhood and strength of men. "You can't throw me off like that, Jan Larose," he said. "We're pardners!" Sergeant Brokaw was hatchet-faced, with shifting pale blue eyes that had a glint of cruelty in them. He was tall, and thin, and lithe as a cat.
O'Grady had gripped his hand, but he dropped it now as though it had been one of the live brands that had hurtled down upon them from the top of the mountain. "Marie man why she HATES me!" he cried. "It's you YOU Jan Larose, that she loves! I went there with a broken leg, an' I fell in love with her.
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