“They have threatened Etienne?” demanded Farr, a sharp note in his voice.

“Ah, m’sieu’, I have said nottin’s to you.  I am only poor old man.  No matter.”

“Why didn’t you say something to me?”

“It’s because you might feel bad, m’sieu’.  P’raps not, for I’m only poor man and don’t count.”

“What have they said to you?”

“It’s nottin’s,” said Etienne, stubbornly.  “You shall not think you got me into trouble.  You did not.  I would have done it maself as soon as I thought of it.”

“I command you to tell me what has been said to you, Etienne.”

“They say that I shall be discharge from the rack.  They say I have talk too much to my compatriots about the poison water.  But I shall talk—­yes—­jesso!”

“Who says so?”

“The yard boss say to me that.  Oh, there’s no mistake.  He have the power, M’sieu’ Farr.  The super tell the yard boss, the mill agent tell the super, the alderman tell the mill agent, the mayor he tell the alderman.”

“And probably Colonel Symonds Dodd told the mayor,” growled Farr.  “It’s a great system, Etienne.  Nobody too small—­nobody too big!”

“But I do not care.  I shall talk some more—­yes, I shall talk in the hotel de ville when you shall tell me to talk.  I was scare at first and I tol’ you I would not talk; but now I have found out I can talk—­and I am not scare any more, and I will talk.”  Pride and determination were in the old man’s tones.  Since that most wonderful evening in all his life when he had heard his voice as if it were the voice of another man ringing forth denunciation of those in high places, the old rack-tender had referred to that new manifestation of himself as if he were discussing another man whom he had discovered.  The memory of his feat was ever fresh within him.  And his meek pride was filled with much wonderment that such a being should have been hidden all the years in Etienne Provancher.  Many men had called around to shake his hand and increase his wonderment as to his own ability.

“We will wait awhile,” counseled Farr, understanding the pride and treating it gently.  “Stay at your work and be very quiet, Etienne, and they will not trouble you.  You need your money, and I will call on you when you can help again.”

“Then I will come.  I shall be sorry to see somebody have my rake and pole, but I shall come.”

A moment of silence fell between them, and during that moment a young woman passed rapidly along the sidewalk.  Walker Farr shut his eyes suddenly, as a man tries to wink away what he considers an illusion, and then opened his eyes and made sure that she was what she seemed; there was no mistaking that face—­it was Kate Kilgour.

He stared after her.  She halted on the next corner, peered up at the dingy street light to make sure of the sign legend on its globe and then turned down an alley.

“Ba gar!” commented old Etienne, putting Farr’s thoughts into words, “that be queer t’ing for such a fine, pretty lady to go down into Rose Alley, because Rose Alley ain’t so sweet as what it sounds.”