obably go to
the Orange funeral to-morrow in a savage spirit. Some of them were loud
in denunciation of Ingolby and "the Lebanon gang"; they joked coarsely
over the dead Orangeman, but their cheerful violence had not yet the
appearance of reality.

One man suddenly changed all that. He was a river-driver of stalwart
proportions, with a red handkerchief round his neck, and with loose
corded trousers tucked into his boots. He had a face of natural ugliness
made almost repulsive by marks of smallpox. Red, flabby lips and an
overhanging brow made him a figure which men would avoid on a dark
night.

"Let's go over to Lebanon to-night and have it out," he said in French.
"That Ingolby--let's go break his windows and give him a dip in the
river. He's the curse of this city. Holy, once Manitou was a place to
live in, now it's a place to die in! The factories, the mills, they're
full of Protes'ants and atheists and shysters; the railway office is
gone to Lebanon. Ingolby took it there. Manitou was the best town in the
West; it's no good now. Who's the cause? Ingolby's the cause. Name of
God, if he was here I'd get him by the throat as quick as winkin'."

He opened and shut his fingers with spasmodic malice, and glared round
the room. "He's going to lock us out if we strike," he added. "He's
going to take the bread out of our mouths; he's going to put his heel on
Manitou, and grind her down till he makes her knuckle to Lebanon--to a
lot of infidels, Protes'ants, and thieves. Who's going to stand it? I
say-bagosh, I say, who's going to stand it!"

"He's a friend of the Monseigneur," ventured a factory-hand, who had a
wife and children to support, and however partisan, was little ready for
that which would stop his supplies.

"Sacre bapteme! That's part of his game," roared the big river-driver
in reply. "I'll take the word of Felix Marchand about that. Look at
him! That Felix Marchand doesn't try to take the bread out of people's
mouths. He gives money here, he gives it there. He wants the old town to
stay as it is and not be swallowed up."

"Three cheers for Felix Marchand!" cried some one in the throng. All
cheered loudly save one old man with grizzled hair and beard, who leaned
against the wall half-way down the room smoking a corncob pipe. He was a
French Canadian in dress and appearance, and he spat on the floor like
a navvy--he had filled his pipe with the strongest tobacco that one man
ever offered to another. As the