pinning his arms to the earth. The man tried to roll sufficiently to throw him off, but Jack was too well placed to allow him very much motion. Weight, anger, and unskilled methods had worked against him; now Jack had complete advantage.
“Shall I give you what you deserve?” demanded Jack, after a moment’s pause.
“Nough!” muttered the man sullenly.
“Get off this route, then, and stay off of it; or next time—” threatened Jack, getting up. “Turn that team right around, and go back to Yarmouth, or wherever you come from!”
Slowly, keeping one eye on Jack the while, he obeyed. As soon as he was on the way, Desiré and the children ran toward their brother.
“Oh, Jack, aren’t you hurt somewhere?” demanded Desiré anxiously.
“Only a few bruises and scratches, thank God!” was the grateful response. “I kept wondering what you would do, poor child, if I were smashed up.”
After a good brushing, and “first-aid” treatment of his scratches, Jack pronounced himself as good as new.
“Children,” said Desiré, “we begged so hard for Jack’s safety. We mustn’t fail to say ‘Thank You’ for what we received. Let’s each say a little prayer of thanksgiving right now.”
After a moment of silence they again turned their attention to the business in hand. Desiré and the children stayed with the wagon, while Jack started once more toward the house.
At his knock, the inner door opened, a woman’s head showed behind the glass of the storm door, and then the outer door was pushed back. Almost every dwelling, no matter how small and unpretentious, has its storm door, and usually these are left on all summer.
“I’m taking old Simon’s route this summer,” began Jack, using the words he was to repeat so many times that season; “and I called to see if you need anything.”
“Yes, I do,” answered the plump little woman in the doorway, her black eyes busily inspecting Jack, and traveling rapidly to the wagon, the girl, and the children on the road. “I’m all out of thread, crackers, kerosene, and—what else was it? Oh, yes, shoe laces. Where’s old Simon? I’ve been watching out for him for three weeks.”
“Sick, in Yarmouth,” replied Jack, turning to go to the wagon to fill her order. The woman followed him.
“This your wife?” she asked, curiously staring at Desiré.
Jack flushed.
“No, my sister; and that is another sister, and my kid brother,” he replied, talking more rapidly than usual to hold the woman’s attention; for Desiré, overcome by laughter, had walked a few steps down the road to recover her composure.
“Where are your folks!”
“Dead,” was the brief reply.
“Now that’s too bad! You so young, and with three youngsters to keep. Dear! Dear!”
Desiré returned just in time to hear the last remarks, and her face twitched so in her efforts to control it that Jack himself had to bury his head in the depths of the wagon while he looked for the cracker boxes.
“Come up to the house with me when this young man carries my things in,” she said to Desiré, taking her by the arm. As if she were indeed a child, she led her along the path to the doorstep.
“Set here,” she directed; and disappeared into the house.
“Ready?” asked Jack, when he came out.
“I don’t know. I was told to ‘set here’; and here I ‘set,’” whispered Desiré.
At that moment the woman returned with a pasteboard box which she thrust into Desiré’s hands.
“Here’s a few cookies for your dinner. They always taste good to children, I guess.”
“Oh, thank you so much. I’m sure we’ll enjoy them,” responded the girl.
“Stop every time you come around,” called the odd little woman, as they closed the gate behind them.
CHAPTER IX
IN CAMP
“Well, our first sale wasn’t so bad,” observed Desiré, as they drove away. “But wasn’t she funny?”
“I thought you were going to disgrace us,” said Jack, smiling. “If you can’t behave any better than that, I’ll have to leave you beside the road somewhere and pick you up later.”
“Oh—o—o!” shrieked René.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Jack, turning to look at the small boy behind him.
“Don’t want Dissy left anywhere! Want her with us!”
“Jack’s only fooling, darling; don’t cry,” consoled Desiré, reaching back over the seat to pet the little boy.
Peace and quiet having been restored, they jogged along the sunshiny road, and soon were abreast of St. Mary’s Bay, where flecks of white were dancing over the blue surface.
“White caps,” observed Desiré. “Fundy must be rough today.”
“Those are gulls,” corrected Jack, “at least so the Indians used to believe. The Spirit of the Sea was so fond of the birds that he caught a lot one day and, with a long string, tied their legs together. He keeps them down in his house under the water, and at times he lets the gulls come up to swim on the top of the water for air and exercise.”
“Why don’t they fly away then? I would!” asserted René, big-eyed with interest.
“Because the Spirit holds fast to the string, and when he thinks they’ve been out long enough, he pulls them all down under the water again.”
Between Saulnierville and Little Brook they made several stops and substantial sales. The picnic dinner which good Mrs. Riboux had insisted upon packing for them, they ate beside a shady stream in which many little fish darted about among the weeds. René insisted upon trying to catch some with his hands, but succeeded only in getting his clothing so splashed that Desiré had to stand him out in the sun to dry before they could continue on their way.
“There’s Church Point,” cried Desiré, later in the afternoon, pointing to the skyline ahead, where a tall spire topped with a cross rose proudly against the blue.
“How happy the sailors must be when they first catch sight of that point,” mused Jack.
“Why?” asked Priscilla.
“Because the spire can be seen for many miles out at sea, and the sailors use it as a guide.”
The shadows were getting long, and the air was much cooler by the time they drove into the little town. On St. Mary’s Bay several fishing boats had already been anchored near the sands, and farther out on the gilded water others were heading for the shore. Over the slight rise near the church they drove, and in and out among the ox teams
