"The crowd have gone the rounds," he continued. "They started at
Barbazon's and they're winding up at Barbazon's. They're drunk enough
to-night to want to do anything, and to-morrow when they've got sore
heads they'll do anything. They'll make that funeral look like a
squeezed orange; they'll show Lebanon and Master Ingolby that we're to be
bosses of our own show. The strike'll be on after the funeral, and after
the strike's begun there'll be--eh, bien sur!"
He paused sharply, as though he had gone too far. "There'll be what?"
whispered the other; but Marchand made no reply, save to make a warning
gesture, for Barbazon, the landlord, had entered behind the bar.
"They're coming back, Barbazon," Marchand said to the landlord, jerking
his head towards the front door. The noise of the crowd was increasing,
the raucous shouts were so loud that the three had to raise their voices.
"You'll do a land-office business to-night," he declared.
Barbazon had an evil face. There were rumours that he had been in gaol
in Quebec for robbery, and that after he had served his time he had dug
up the money he had stolen and come West. He had started the first
saloon at Manitou, and had grown with the place in more senses than one.
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