As Carpentier was opening his bottle a second frequenter entered the cabaret.  This was a man of thirty or thirty-five, with strong features and the frame of a Hercules.  An expression of frankness and gayety overspread his sunburnt face.  Cottonade pantaloons, stuffed into a pair of dirty boots, and a vareuse of the same stuff made up his dress.  His vareuse, unbuttoned, showed his breast, brown and hairy; and a horrid cap with long hair covered, without concealing, a mass of red locks that a comb had never gone through.  A long whip, the stock of which he held in his hand, was coiled about his left arm.  He advanced to the counter and asked for a glass of brandy.  He was a drayman named John Gordon—­an Irishman.

But, strange, John Gordon, glass in hand, did not drink; Carpentier, with his fingers round the neck of the bottle, failed to pour his cider; and my father himself, his eyes attracted to another part of the room, forgot his wine.  Every one was looking at an individual gesticulating and haranguing in the middle of the place, to the great amusement of all.  My father recognized him at first sight.  He was an Italian about the age of Gordon; short, thick-set, powerful, swarthy, with the neck of a bull and hair as black as ebony.  He was telling rapidly, with strong gestures, in an almost incomprehensible mixture of Spanish, English, French, and Italian, the story of a hunting party that he had made up five years before.  This was Mario Carlo.  A Neapolitan by birth, he had for several years worked as a blacksmith on the plantation of one of our neighbors, M. Alphonse Perret.  Often papa had heard him tell of this hunt, for nothing could be more amusing than to listen to Carlo.  Six young men, with Carlo as sailor and cook, had gone on a two-months’ expedition into the country of the Attakapas.

“Yes,” said the Italian, in conclusion, “game never failed us; deer, turkeys, ducks, snipe, two or three bears a week.  But the sublimest thing was the rich land.  Ah! one must see it to believe it.  Plains and forests full of animals, lakes and bayous full of fish.  Ah! fortune is there.  For five years I have dreamed, I have worked, with but one object in view; and today the end is reached.  I am ready to go.  I want only two companions to aid me in the long journey, and those I have come to look for here.”

John Gordon stepped forward, laid a hand upon the speaker’s shoulder, and said: 

“My friend, I am your man.”

Mario Carlo seized the hand and shook it with all his force.

“You will not repent the step.  But”—­turning again to the crowd—­“we want one more.”

Joseph Carpentier rose slowly and advanced to the two men.  “Comrades, I will be your companion if you will accept me.”

Before separating, the three drank together and appointed to meet the next day at the house of Gordon, the Irishman.

When my father saw Gordon and Carpentier leave the place, he placed his hand on Mario’s shoulder and said in Italian, “My boy, I want to talk with you.”