Yet that same lithe body, which seemed as though totally unhinged,
could no more be bent, when the muscles were strung, than an iron
post. No one wrestled with Henri unless he wished to have his back
broken. Few could equal and none could beat him at running or leaping
except Dick Varley. When Henri ran a race even Joe Blunt laughed
outright, for arms and legs went like independent flails. When he
leaped, he hurled himself into space with a degree of violence that
seemed to insure a somersault; yet he always came down with a crash on
his feet. Plunging was Henri's forte. He generally lounged about the
settlement when unoccupied, with his hands behind his back, apparently
in a reverie, and when called on to act, he seemed to fancy he must
have lost time, and could only make up for it by _plunging_. This
habit got him into many awkward scrapes, but his herculean power
as often got him out of them. He was a French-Canadian, and a
particularly bad speaker of the English language.
We offer no apology for this elaborate introduction of Henri, for
he was as good-hearted a fellow as ever lived, and deserves special
notice.
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