which he ripped out like snarls. I would as soon have touched him as a
ball of angry bees or a pair of fighting wildcats. Not so Bill Cowan.
When that worthy recovered from his first surprise he seized hold of some
of the man's twisting arms and legs and lifted him bodily from the
ground, as he would have taken a perverse and struggling child. There
was no question of a fight. Cowan picked him up, I say, and before any
one knew what happened, he flung him on to the hot roof of the store (the
eaves were but two feet above his head), and there the man stuck,
clinging to a loose shingle, purpling and coughing and spitting with
rage. There was a loud gust of guffaws from the woodsmen, and oaths like
whip-cracks from the circle around us, menacing growls as it surged
inward and our men turned to face it. A few citizens pushed through the
outskirts of it and ran away, and in the hush that followed we heard them
calling wildly the names of Father Gibault and Clark and of Vigo himself.
Cowan thrust me past the clerk into the store, where I stood listening to
the little man on the roof, scratching and clutching at the shingles, and
coughing still.

But there was no fight. Shouts of "Monsieur Vigo! Voici Monsieur Vigo!"
were heard, the crowd parted respectfully, and Monsieur Vigo in his
snuff-colored suit stood glancing from Cowan to his pallid clerk. He was
not in the least excited.

"Come in, my frens," he said; "it is too hot in the sun." And he set the
example by stepping over the sill on to the hard-baked earth of the floor
within. Then he spied me. "Ah," he said, "the boy of Monsieur le
Colonel! And how are you called, my son?" he added, patting me kindly.

"Davy, sir," I answered.