Black Rock | Page 6

made,
the minister drove up and called out in a cheery voice, 'Merry
Christmas, boys! Hello, Sandy! Comment ca va, Baptiste? How do you
do, Mr. Graeme?'
'First rate. Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Connor, sometime medical
student, now artist, hunter, and tramp at large, but not a bad sort.'
'A man to be envied,' said the minister, smiling. 'I am glad to know any
friend of Mr. Graeme's.'
I liked Mr. Craig from the first. He had good eyes that looked straight
out at you, a clean-cut, strong face well set on his shoulders, and
altogether an upstanding, manly bearing. He insisted on going with
Sandy to the stables to see Dandy, his broncho, put up.
'Decent fellow,' said Graeme; 'but though he is good enough to his
broncho, it is Sandy that's in his mind now.'
'Does he come out often? I mean, are you part of his parish, so to
speak?'
'I have no doubt he thinks so; and I'm blowed if he doesn't make the
Presbyterians of us think so too.' And he added after a pause, 'A dandy
lot of parishioners we are for any man. There's Sandy, now, he would
knock Keefe's head off as a kind of religious exercise; but to-morrow
Keefe will be sober, and Sandy will be drunk as a lord, and the drunker

he is the better Presbyterian he'll be; to the preacher's disgust.' Then
after another pause he added bitterly, 'But it is not for me to throw
rocks at Sandy; I am not the same kind of fool, but I am a fool of
several other sorts.'
Then the cook came out and beat a tattoo on the bottom of a dish- pan.
Baptiste answered with a yell: but though keenly hungry, no man
would demean himself to do other than walk with apparent reluctance
to his place at the table. At the further end of the camp was a big
fireplace, and from the door to the fireplace extended the long board
tables, covered with platters of turkey not too scientifically carved,
dishes of potatoes, bowls of apple sauce, plates of butter, pies, and
smaller dishes distributed at regular intervals. Two lanterns hanging
from the roof, and a row of candles stuck into the wall on either side by
means of slit sticks, cast a dim, weird light over the scene.
There was a moment's silence, and at a nod from Graeme Mr. Craig
rose and said, 'I don't know how you feel about it, men, but to me this
looks good enough to be thankful for.'
'Fire ahead, sir,' called out a voice quite respectfully, and the minister
bent his head and said--
'For Christ the Lord who came to save us, for all the love and goodness
we have known, and for these Thy gifts to us this Christmas night, our
Father, make us thankful. Amen.'
'Bon, dat's fuss rate,' said Baptiste. 'Seems lak dat's make me hit (eat)
more better for sure,' and then no word was spoken for quarter of an
hour. The occasion was far too solemn and moments too precious for
anything so empty as words. But when the white piles of bread and the
brown piles of turkey had for a second time vanished, and after the last
pie had disappeared, there came a pause and hush of expectancy,
whereupon the cook and cookee, each bearing aloft a huge, blazing
pudding, came forth.
'Hooray!' yelled Blaney, 'up wid yez!' and grabbing the cook by the
shoulders from behind, he faced him about.

Mr. Craig was the first to respond, and seizing the cookee in the same
way, called out, 'Squad, fall in! quick march!' In a moment every man
was in the procession.
'Strike up, Batchees, ye little angel!' shouted Blaney, the appellation a
concession to the minister's presence; and away went Baptiste in a
rollicking French song with the English chorus--
'Then blow, ye winds, in the morning, Blow, ye winds, ay oh! Blow, ye
winds, in the morning, Blow, blow, blow.'
And at each 'blow' every boot came down with a thump on the plank
floor that shook the solid roof. After the second round, Mr. Craig
jumped upon the bench, and called out--
'Three cheers for Billy the cook!'
In the silence following the cheers Baptiste was heard to say, 'Bon!
dat's mak me feel lak hit dat puddin' all hup mesef, me.'
'Hear till the little baste!' said Blaney in disgust.
'Batchees,' remonstrated Sandy gravely, 'ye've more stomach than
manners.'
'Fu sure! but de more stomach dat's more better for dis puddin',' replied
the little Frenchman cheerfully.
After a time the tables were cleared and pushed back to the wall, and
pipes were produced. In all attitudes suggestive of comfort the men
disposed themselves in a wide