"When we get across this cursed boghole," said Jules, "you shall tell us the story of Davy Larouche. Oh, that I had the legs of a heron, like this haughty Scotchman who strides before us whistling a pibroch just fit for these roads." "What would you give," said Archie, "to exchange your diminutive French legs for those of the haughty Highlander?" "Keep your legs," retorted Jules, "for when you have to run away from the enemy." Once well across the meadow, the young men asked José for his story. "I must tell you," said the latter, "that a fellow named Davy Larouche once lived in the parish of St. Roch. He was a good enough provider, neither very rich nor very poor. I used to think that the dear fellow was not quite sharp enough, which prevented him making great headway in the world. "It happened that one morning Davy got up earlier than usual, put through his chores in the stable, returned to the house, fixed his whiskers as if it were Sunday, and got himself up in his best clothes. "'Where are you going, my good man?' asked his wife. 'What a swell you are! Are you going to see the girls?' "You must understand that this was a joke of hers; she knew that her husband was bashful with women, and not at all inclined to run after them. As for La Thèque herself, she was the most facetious little body on the whole south side, inheriting it from her old Uncle Bernuchon Castonguay. She often used to say, pointing to her husband, 'You see that great fool yonder?' Certainly not a very polite way to speak of her husband. 'Well, he would never have had the pluck to ask me in marriage, though I was the prettiest girl in the parish, if I had not met him more than half-way. Yet, how his eyes used to shine whenever he saw me! I took pity on him, because he wasn't making much progress. To be sure, I was even more anxious about it than he; he had four good acres of land to his name, while I had nothing but this fair body of mine.' "She was lying a little to be sure, the puss," added José. "She had a cow, a yearling bull, six sheep, her spinning-wheel, a box so full of clothes that you had to kneel on it to shut it, and in the box fifty silver francs. "'I took pity on him one evening,' said she, 'when he called at our house and sat in the corner without even daring to speak to me. "I know you are in love with me, you great simpleton," said I. "Go and speak to my father, who is waiting for you in the next room, and you can get the banns published next Sunday." Moreover, since he sat there without budging and as red as a turkey-cock, I took him by the shoulders and pushed him into the other room. My father opened a closet and brought out a flask of brandy to encourage him. Well, in spite of all these hints, he had to get three drinks into his body before he found his tongue.'