M'sieur," Bryce mimicked him. "I shouldn't wonder if I took the value
of that tree out of your hide."

"I t'enk so, M'sieur." He approached Bryce and lowered his voice.
"For one month I am no good all ze tam. We don' fight some more,
M'sieur. And I have feel ashame' for dose Black Minorca feller.
Always wiz him eet is ze knife or ze club--and now eet is ze rifle.
COCHON! W'en I fight, I fight wiz what le bon Dieu give me."

"You appear to have a certain code, after all," Bryce laughed. "I am
inclined to like you for it. You're sporty in your way, you
tremendous scoundrel!"

"Mebbeso," Rondeau suggested hopefully, "M'sieur likes me for woods-
boss?"

"Why, what's the matter with Pennington? Is he tired of you?"

The colour mounted slowly to the woods bully's swarthy cheek.
"Mademoiselle Sumnair, he's tell me pretty soon he's goin' be boss of
Laguna Grande an' stop all thees fight. An' w'en Mademoiselle, he is
in the saddle, good-bye Jules Rondeau. Thees country--I like him. I
feel sad, M'sieur, to leave dose beeg trees." He paused, looking
rather wistfully at Bryce. "I am fine woods-boss for somebody," he
suggested hopefully.

"You think Miss Sumner dislikes you then, Rondeau?"

"I don' theenk. I know." He sighed; his huge body seemed to droop. "I
am out of zee good luck now," he murmured bitterly. "Everybody, she