Breakfast over, McIvor heaved his great form to the perpendicular.
"How is the foot, Cameron?" he asked, filling his pipe preparatory to
the march.
"Just about fit," replied Cameron.
"Better take another day," replied the chief. "You can get up wood and
get supper ready. Benoit will be glad enough to go out and take your
place for another day on the line."
"Sure ting," cried Benoit, the jolly French-Canadian cook. "Good for
my healt. He's tak off my front porsch here." And the cook patted
affectionately the little round paunch that marred the symmetry of his
figure.
"You ought to get Cameron to swap jobs with you, Benny," said one of the
axemen. "You would be a dandy in about another month."
Benoit let his eye run critically over the line of his person.
"Bon! Dat's true, for sure. In tree, four mont I mak de beeg spark on de
girl, me."
"You bet, Benny!" cried the axeman. "You'll break 'em all up."
"Sure ting!" cried Benny, catching up a coal for his pipe. "By by,
Cameron. Au revoir. I go for tak some more slice from my porsch."
"Good-bye, Benny," cried Cameron. "It is your last chance, for to-morrow
I give you back your job. I don't want any 'front porsch' on me."
"Ho! ho!" laughed Benny scornfully, as he turned to hurry after
his chief. "Dat's not moch front porsch on you.
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