THE QUETEUX 



With thirty miles of forest and moun- 

 tain between us and les paroisses, a tap at 

 the door, even a gentle deprecatory tap, was 

 as unexpected and startling as would have 

 been the rumble of an earthquake; but 

 there was nothing to disquiet one in the 

 small bowed figure that entered. From the 

 very edge of his chair, as though ready to 

 depart at any slight hint of displeasure, he 

 watched us with the eyes of a child who 

 has met uncomprehended fates — in his 

 glance something of a hare's wildness, of a 

 chipmunk's simple cunning. 



A little alms he sought, in that he was not 

 able to work. Surely the old chemineau 

 (queteux in the country speech) made 

 choice of a strange beat in those thirty 

 leagues of lonely road between Chicoutimi 

 and the St. Lawrence. Thither had he 

 drifted from Chicago ten years before, nor 

 is he home-sick for its clamorous windy 

 streets. 



But was the choice so strange? Along 

 these rough miles of forest, with but half 

 a dozen dwellings scattered over sixty of 

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