A shout rose in the hall, and every man sprang to his feet.  Cheer rose upon cheer, while De La Lande shook the hand in his with feeling; and the cheering, smiling, and hand shaking, lasted nearly a minute.

It ended at a story by Zotique.

“When I was a boy,”—­he began, in a deep, exaggerated voice, and whirling his two arms so as to include the whole of those present in the circle of his address.  The cheers and confusion broke into a roar of laughter for a moment, that stifled itself almost as quickly, as they listened.

“We lived for a year in the Village Ste. Aldegonde, near to Montreal.  In the Village Ste. Aldegonde there was a nation of boys.  All these boys marched in daily to town to the great School of the Blessed Brothers.  Along the way to the School of the Blessed Brothers, many English boys lay in wait between us and learning, and we passed certain streets like Hurons passing through the forests of Iroquois.  Often we went in large war parties, and repeated the charges of Waterloo for hours up and down streets.”

“One afternoon I passed there alone—­accompanied by a great boaster.  We behold three big English boys.  We cross the street.  They come after:—­get before us:—­command us to stop!”

The audience were worked up into suppressed fits, for Zotique’s gestures were inimitable.

“My friend the boaster steps forward with the air Napoleonic!  He sticks out his breast like this; he shortens his neck, like this; he frowns his brows; he glares at them a terrible look; he cries:  ’I am of the Canadian blood!’”

“And what does he do next, gentlemen?” Zotique paused a moment.

—­“Runs for his life!”

The roar that followed shook the apartment.  Zotique stopped it.

“But what did I do, gentlemen?”

No one ventured to guess.

“I—­perhaps because I was of the Dormilliere blood—­did not run, but looked at the English.—­We laughed all together.—­And I passed along unmolested.”

“Messieurs,—­with the exception of our excellent De La Lande, I am afraid it is too often those who lack the virtues of their race who make most cry of it.”

The meeting now resumed its discussions.

“We require strategy!” asserted a burly, red-haired lawyer from the City.

“I confess myself in favor of strategy,” admitted Zotique also;

“I am always in favor,” said Chamilly, “of the strategy of organized tactics, of the avoidance of useless by-questions, and of spirit and intelligence in attack and defence.”

“But you will not let us lie a little in protection of you,” retorted Zotique.  “To me the moral law is to beat Picault.”