The shantymen had torn off their
coats and were waving them wildly and tossing them high, while the
ranchers added to the uproar by emptying their revolvers into the air in
a way that made one nervous.
When the crowd was somewhat quieted Sandy's stiff figure appeared,
slowly making towards them. A dozen lumbermen ran to him, eagerly
inquiring if he were hurt. But Sandy could only curse the little
Frenchman for losing the race.
'Lost! Why, man, we've won it!' shouted a voice, at which Sandy's rage
vanished, and he allowed himself to be carried in upon the shoulders of
his admirers.
'Where's the lad?' was his first question.
The bronchos are off with him. He's down at the rapids like enough.'
'Let me go,' shouted Sandy, setting off at a run in the track of the
sleigh. He had not gone far before he met Baptiste coming back with his
team foaming, the roans going quietly, but the bronchos dancing, and
eager to be at it again.
'Voila! bully boy! tank the bon Dieu, Sandy; you not keel, heh? Ah!
you are one grand chevalier,' exclaimed Baptiste, hauling Sandy in and
thrusting the lines into his hands.
Pages:
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58