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It is wicked to kill myself, but my head is so bad I cannot think out the right way to do. This is the key to the room in Block Ten. "'Her name is Rosemarie." Walker Farr finished reading and stared into the glittering eyes of the old man. Etienne Provancher swore roundly and furiously the strange, hard oaths that his ancestors had brought from the Normandy of the seventeenth century.
Provancher, the bad men are making threats that they will print stories about the child and its mamma to hurt your friend. And the stories will make the mamma very sad." "No stories can make her sad," said old Etienne, solemnly. But he did not say that he had raked the mother from the canal. The law must not know! "But I have heard about her," she insisted.
"Hy, yi, old Pickaroon!" came a child's shrill voice from a mill window. "There's a tramp under your tree." The old man raised his head from his work at the rack. "You must not come on dis place," he cried, with a strong French-Canadian accent. "Who says so?" inquired the stranger, putting his back against the tree and stretching out his legs. "I Etienne Provancher."
And so Etienne Provancher found them when he came with his rake and pike-pole at six o'clock, the hour when the great turbines began to grunt and rumble in their deep pits. "It is Rosemarie I found her in the room," said Walker Farr. The old man came close and gazed down on the pallor and pathos of this little snipped who still stared at the new wonders of outdoors. "Anodder one, hey?
The uninvited guest surveyed the young man with more composure than he had been able to command when he looked at the girl. Etienne Provancher had fortified him with some valuable information. "Mr. Richard Dodd, I'll apologize and walk out of here after you have explained to me why you have faked up into a parson one Dennis Burke, late of the state prison, to officiate at weddings."
For when she left the office she did not hasten straight home as her anxious fears prompted her; she made a detour around by Gamonic Mill in search of one Provancher, who, she had learned, tended the rack of the canal.
"Uncle Symonds, pass the word to that old Provancher, through the superintendent of the Gamonic, that unless he comes across with all the stuff he knows about that Farr he'll be fired. And I've got a hunter out on my own account. It will be easy enough to catch the skunk and strip off his pelt." Miss Kilgour closed the door behind her with a sharper click than she had ever given its latch before.
He owned up to himself that he was a very weary bird of passage and confessed to his own heart, just as frankly, that he was a captive in the frail grasp of a little girl and he did not try to understand. It proved to be an amicable and satisfactory partnership between Etienne Provancher and Walker Farr and dark-eyed Zelie Dionne.
But I have here a man whom many of you know, I'm sure, for he has stood out in plain view of a street where many pass, and has worked there for thirty years. It is Etienne Provancher." Several men laughed when Farr pushed the old man into view. There was a murmured chorus of "Pickaroon." "It's for the children the poor folks for the memory of our little girl," hissed Farr in the old man's ear.
He was busy with thoughts of his own. This bland fooling in municipal matters while stealthy death, protected by city franchise, dripped, so he believed, from every faucet in the tenement-house district, stirred his bitter indignation. Etienne Provancher stood beside him, and the old man did not laugh, either, because he did not understand in the least what those men were talking about.
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